THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


- 


V    *• 


**    . 


1 


; 
WATEB-DKOPS, 


MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


•  Temperate  in  all  things." 

ST.  PAUL. 


NEW    YORK: 

ROBERT    CARTER,    58  CANAL    STREET, 
AND  PITTSBURG,  56  MARKET  STREET. 

1848. 


ENTERKO,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847,  by 

ROBERT    CARTER, 

i  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for 
the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


THOMAS    B.    SMITH.    STKRKOTYPKK,  R.    CRMGHEM),    1'RINTK 

216  WILLIAM  STRKKT,  N.  Y.  112  FULTON  STRUCT. 


PS 


PREFACE. 


MUCH  has  been  said  and  done  in  the  cause  of  Temper- 
ance, and  for  the  reformation  of  those  who  have  swerved 
from  its  dictates.  Yet  there  is  still  a  strong  tide  to  stem, 
and  a  great  work  to  achieve. 

Are  the  female  sex  fully  aware  of  their  duties  in 
this  matter  ?  Too  many  of  them  have,  indeed,  felt  the 
miseries  of  a  desecrated  fireside,  and  the  transformation 
of  the  natural  protector  of  themselves  and  their  children 
into  a  frenzied  foe.  Peopled  prisons,  and  blood  upon  the 
hearth-stone,  have  brought  into  prominence  before  the 
public  eye,  that  fearful  intemperance  from  which  such 
sufferings  flow. 

It  has  been  repeatedly  asked,  if  females  are  prepared  to 
render  all  the  aid  in  their  power  for  the  suppression  of  a 
crime  which  peculiarly  threatens  their  most  sacred  inter- 


1732006 


PREFACE. 


ests.  What  is  the  nature  of  the  power  that  they  may 
command  ?  Does  it  not  consist  principally  in  home-in- 
fluences ?  In  preventives, — in  pencil-traces  on  the  tender 
mind, — when  it  "  turneth  as  wax  to  the  seal  ?" 

Is  not  the  structure  of  domestic  life  committed  to  their 
care  ?  And  are  not  the  seeds  of  the  evil  we  contemplate 
sometimes  sown  at  the  household  board,  in  the  example 
of  those  who  hold  the  reins  of  authority,  or  the  talisman 
of  love  ?  Ought  not  the  foundation  of  self-control  to  be 
laid  in  the  early  habits  of  unfolding  character  ?  Is  absti- 
nence from  the  intoxicating  cup,  the  whole  of  temperance  ? 
Is  it  wise  to  pamper  all  the  appetites,  and  then  expect 
the  entire  subjection  of  one  ?  Is  it  safe  to  wait  until  that 
one  has  become  perverted,  and  then  wage  against  it  a 
painful,  doubtful  warfare  ? 

Women,  by  the  courtesy  of  modern  times,  have  been 
styled  the  educating  sex.  High  honor  and  deep  respon- 
sibility dwell  with  such  a  name.  Should  not  the  whole 
of  education  teach  the  danger  of  self-indulgence,  and  the 
excellence  of  intellectual  enjoyments  ?  While  it  recog- 
nizes the  kindness  of  the  Great  Former  of  the  body,  in 
attaching  pleasure  to  the  appetites  by  which  it  is  nour- 
ished, will  it  fail  to  expose  the  ingratitude  and  mad- 


ness  of  putting  in  jeopardy  through  their  excess,  not  only 
the  welfare  of  the  body,  but  the  life  of  the  soul  ? 

What  then  is  the  aid  that  woman  can  most  fitly  lend 
to  the  noble  science  of  being  "  temperate  in  all  things  ?" 
Not  the  assumption  of  masculine  energies,  not  the  ap- 
plause of  popular  assemblies ;  but  the  still,  small  voice 
singing  at  the  cradle-side, — the  prayerful  sigh,  that  cries 
where  seraphs  veil  their  faces.  So  may  she  steadfastly 
co-operate  with  the  blessed  agencies  that  work  around 
her,  till,  from  the  sanctuary  of  every  home,  shall  go  forth 
a  pure  streamlet  to  make  glad  the  green  vale.s  of  her  native 
land,  and  to  praise  the  Lord  of  the  harvest, 

Hartford,  Connecticut, 
October  1st,  1847, 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

THE  TWINS          .  11 

THE  SUCCESSFUL  ADVOCATE 27 

WATER 29 

DIVINE  AID 31 

APPLES  OF  SODOM 32 

"  ONLY  THIS  ONCE  " 37 

DEATH'S  CHOICE 39 

VJE  VOBIS 42 

THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON 44 

THE  ANTIDOTE 74 

THE  WATER-BEARER 75 

DRINKING  SONG 77 

THE  PATRIARCH 78 

THE  VINE 82 

MOSES  IN  MIDIAN 83 

THE  TWO  DRAUGHTS 85 

LOUISA  WILSON ,        .87 

SCORN  NOT  THE  ERRING 120 

THE  TOMB  OF  CECILIA  METELLA 121 

THE  UPAS  TREE 124 

A  WALK  IN  CHILDHOOD 125 

I  SAW  A  LITTLE  GIRL 128 

THE  DEATH  OF  KING  EDMUND  .  .        .  130 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

OLD  ALCOHOL 133 

THE  EMIGRANT  BRIDE 134 

LINES  TO  COLLEGE  STUDENTS 148 

WOMAN'S  MISSION 150 

HYMN 151 

INTEMPERANCE  AT  SEA 152 

DANGERS  OF  SEAMEN     .        . 160 

THE  STORM 162 

THE  SAILOR'S  APPEAL 166 

THE  HARWOODS 169 

THE  WEEPING  WIFE 195 

THE  MOURNFUL  VISIT 197 

FOR  A  JUVENILE  TEMPERANCE  SOCIETY      .        .        .200 

LOST  HOPES 201 

A  DREAM      .        .         . 218 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  COUNTRY 220 

FALLEN  BY  THE  WAY    ....;...  222 

THE  GOOD  QUEEN 224 

"  WHAT  THEN " 248 

UNKNOWN  HEIRS 250 

THE  CENTENNIAL  ANNIVERSARY  OF  PRINCETON 

COLLEGE 253 

LETTER  TO  FEMALES 255 

WOMAN'S  PATRIOTISM 270 

THE  PRECIOUS  GIFT 272 

THE  SPOILER  .  274 


WATER-DROPS, 


THE  TWINS. 


'  We  with  our  needles  fashion'd  the  same  flower  ; 
Both  wrought  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbled  the  same  song, — both  in  one  key, — 
As  if  our  hands,  our  hearts,  yoices  and  minds, 
Had  been  incorporate." 

SlIAKSPEAl 


IN  the  environs  of  one  of  the  large  towns  of  New -Eng- 
land, a  pleasant  dwelling  attracted  the  eye  of  the  travel- 
ler. It  was  a  kind  of  Gothic  cottage,  whose  face  of 
brown  stucco,  and  pointed  windows,  were  adorned  with 
clustering  vines.  Its  lawn  of  green  turf  was  smoothly 
shaven,  while  occasional  borders,  and  circles  of  dark, 
weedless  mould,  gave  nutriment  to  a  multitude  of  flowers. 

The  angles  formed  by  the  building  were  wrapped  in 
shrubbery ;  the  damask-rose  and  syringas  mingled  their 
fragrance,  and  the  corcoris-japonica  waved  its  globes  of 
gold.  To  the  slight  columns  clung  the  climbing  rose 
and  the  graceful  American  ivy,  while  near  the  well  in 
the  background,  a  dense  willow,  nourished  by  perpetual 
moisture,  ever  drank,  and  drooped.  The  inclosure  was 
a  deep  hedge  of  lilacs,  in  whose  rich  spikes  of  flowers 
the  white  and  purple  alternated.  At  the  gate,  a  lofty 
elm  stood  sentinel,  towering  upwards,  whence  its  strength 


12  THE    TWINS. 


came,  and  dispensing  from  its  gnarled  wide-spread  arms, 
protection  and  shade.  Such  was  the  rural  haunt,  amid 
the  luxuriance  of  favoring  seasons,  while  here  and  there 
an  evergreen,  skilfully  disposed,  provided  with  a  wise 
foresight  for  the  nakedness  of  winter. 

This  abode  of  simple  elegance  was  furnished  with 
reference  both  to  comfort  and  taste.  The  interior  was  in 
harmony  with  its  outer  robes.  With  no  pretensions  to 
ostentation,  it  had  yet  one  treasure  that  neither  wealth 
could  purchase,  nor  soulless  nature  in  its  proudest  glory 
boast — twin-sister  babes,  alike,  and  exceedingly  beauti- 
ful. As  they  lay  asleep  in  their  double-headed  cradle, 
one  polished  brow  seemed  a  reflection  of  the  other.  The 
smile  of  waking  innocence  gave  the  same  curve  to  their 
ruby  lips,  and  revealed  the  first  pearly  teeth,  seemingly 
formed  in  the  same  mould. 

Placed  in  the  verandah  on  some  fine  summer's  day,  in 
their  little  cushioned  car,  the  shrill  song  of  surrounding 
birds  brought  to  their  large,  blue  eyes,  the  same  sweet 
wonder ;  and  two  pair  of  tiny  hands  were  clapped  with 
one  impulse  of  delight,  at  the  nurse  who  danced  before 
them. 

Side  by  side,  their  round  feet  patted  about  the  nursery, 
and  with  their  arms  around  each  other,  they  learned  to 
balance  their  timid,  yet  eager  steps,  when  permitted  to 
tread  on  the  green  turf,  like  newly-fledged  birdlings,  at 
"  their  first  flight  from  the  cage."  Together  they  learned 
to  shape  their  infantine  articulations,  and  thrilling  was 


THE    TWINS.  13 


the  melody  of  the  word  "  mamma"  to  the  fond  heart  that 
responded  to  those  sweetly  blended  tones. 

No  wonder  that  gentle  mother  regarded  those  exquisite 
beings,  with  a  tenderness  bordering  on  idolatry.  To 
watch  the  hourly  development  of  her  twin  rose-buds,  the 
color  and  cluster  of  each  incipient  curl,  their  features 
quickening  as  the  dawn  of  intellect  advanced,  the  veri- 
similitude in  form  and  movement  that  deceived  other 
eyes,  and  almost  bewildered  her  own,  was  an  "  over-pay- 
ment of  delight."  Her  extreme  solicitude  during  the  ills 
incidental  to  infancy,  was  rendered  more  agonizing,  from 
the  circumstance  that  they  were  the  sole  survivors  of 
several  dear  ones,  who  had  entered  this  fair  and  change- 
ful existence,  only  to  take  a  sudden  farewell. 

The  father,  whose  manners  had  been  roughened  by  a 
life -long  intercourse  with  the  boisterous  sea,  where  he 
had  passed  every  grade,  from  cabin-boy  to  the  command 
of  a  princely  vessel,  found  his  whole  nature  breathed 
upon,  and  softened,  by  the  influence  of  this  double  pater- 
nity. As  he  glided  over  the  rushing  waves,  he  counted 
the  days  and  hours  that  must  divide  him  from  that  home, 
which  was  as  the  light-house  to  the  storm-driven  mariner, 
the  "  star  of  hope  on  life's  tremulous  ocean."  Those 
fairy  forms  hovered  around  him  in  their  exceeding  beauty, 
as  living  pictures  on  the  crested  billow,  and  amid  the 
hoarsest  roar  of  the  •  tempest,  their  tones  lingered  in  his 
heart,  like  the  murmur  of  the  Zenaida  dove. 

His  periods  of  return  were  signalized  by  lavish  gifts  to 


14.  THE    TWINS. 


them,  and  to  their  mother.  With  the  liberality  natural 
to  his  profession,  the  most  hard-earned  gains  were  val- 
ued but  as  the  means  of  their  happiness.  He  studied 
the  unspoken  wishes  of  his  wife,  and  knowing  her  delight 
in  the  beauties  of  nature,  strove  to  make  her  habitation 
and  surrounding  grounds  more  and  more  of  a  paradise. 
She  often  endeavored  to  temper  his  profusion  by  a  wise 
regard  for  the  future ;  but  he  deemed  this  free  expendi- 
ture a  legitimate  expression  of  his  love,  and  gloried  in  its 
exercise. 

As  Rosa  and  Lilian  sprang  from  infancy  to  childhood, 
it  was  sweet  to  see  them  clasping  with  their  delicate 
hands  his  large  brown  fingers,  and  leading  him  with  hur- 
ried steps  to  their  own  little  garden ;  or  seated  at  close 
of  day,  with  their  white  arms  entwining  his  neck,  and 
their  pure,  polished  cheeks  resting  on  his  bronzed  brow. 

Childhood  advanced,  and  two  lovely  creatures  might 
be  seen,  wending  their  way  to  school.  Always  together, 
arm  in  arm,  or  hand  linked  to  hand,  always  attired  alike, 
it  would  even  seem  that  each  golden  curl,  clustering 
around  their  ivory  necks,  had  been  trained  by  careful  na- 
ture to  observe  the  same  rule  of  equity.  Side  by  side, 
they  pursued  the  same  studies.  If  there  was  difficulty  in 
the  task,  they  assisted  each  other ;  if  reward,  they  were 
joint  partakers.  Thus,  they  grew  together,  in  the  words 
of  the  bard  of  Avon, 

"  Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seaming  parted, 
But  yet  an  union  in  partition." 


THE    TWINS.  15 


They  bent  over  qne  page,  they  wrought  out  the  same 
problem,  their  pencils  tinted  the  same  landscape,  their 
piano  breathed  in  duets  ;  they  had  no  idea  of  a  separate 
employment,  or  a  solitary  joy.  In  all  the  pursuits  of 
knowledge,  and  toils  of  education,  they  put  forth  a  double 
strength,  through  this  perfected  sympathy. 

When  the  pleasant  season  of  school-day  intercourse 
was  over,  and  they  gracefully  assumed  those  lighter 
domestic  cares,  which  were  to  relieve  a  mother  in  her 
delicate  health,  they  were  still  kindred-hearted,  lighting 
up  the  habitation  with  a  double  smile ;  their  voices,  like  a 
music-tone,  always  in  unison.  Whatever  they  performed 
was  with  the  whole,  cheerful  heart ;  and  their  surpassing 
beauty  was  heightened  by  this  happy  development  of 
feminine  character  and  duty. 

Thus  glided  away  nineteen  cloudless  years, — and  then 
the  trouble  came.  Like  the  thunder-bolt,  and  the  sweep- 
ing rain,  fell  the  stroke  of  orphanage.  Shipwreck  buried 
the  father  in  the  deep,  and  the  stricken  wife,  enfeebled 
by  previous  disease,  -was  unable  to  brave  the  sudden 
shock  of  so  fearful  a  sorrow.  She  lingered  a  few  weeks, 
and  sank  beneath  the  clods  of  the  valley. 

Alas,  for  Rosa  and  Lilian !  Ever  near  the  couch  of 
the  sufferer,  rendering  every  service  that  affection  could 
prompt,  by  night  or  day,  while  breath  remained, — they 
wished,  in  the  first  bitterness  of  grief,  to  be  gathered  into 
her  bosom,  and  sleep  beside  her,  where  the  weary  are  at 
rest.  But  as  time  slowly  unveiled  his  healing  influences, 


16  THE    TWINS. 


the  power  of  entire  sympathy  to  soothe  sorrow,  became 
also  apparent.  Communion  in  grief  dispelled  the  rank- 
ling anguish,  and  softened  it  into  that  tender  melancholy 
which  is  the  nurse  of  holy  thought. 

The  seasons,  weighed  down  by  affliction,  moved  heavily. 
Yet  gradually  the  bereaved  ones  resumed  an  interest  in 
their  daily  duties,  and  in  the  soothing  intercourse  of 
friendship  and  benevolence.  Hitherto,  their  existence 
had  known  no  undivided  thought,  or  reserved  sentiment. 
The  period  had  come,  when  this  peculiar  and  entire 
union  was  to  be  modified.  Love  ventured  on  the  experi- 
ment. With  his  usual  arrogance  he  entered  the  sanc- 
tuary, with  his  train  of  dreams  and  fancies,  and  hung  up 
his  own  effigy  in  its  most  sacred  shrine. 

A  youth,  of  an  impulsive  and  wild  character,  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  to  his  own  heart,  one  of  those  recluse 
and  contemplative  beings.  It  would  seem  that  opposites 
had  so  combined,  as  to  form  an  attachment  of  rare  fervor 
and  effervescence. 

The  forsaken  sister  learned  by  degrees  the  hard  lesson, 
that  another  was  preferred  to  herself.  She  could  not  but 
perceive  that  her  presence  was  an  interruption  to  the 
lovers,  and  that  the  bosom  so  long  exclusively  her  own, 
had  admitted  a  guest  which  could  tolerate  no  rival.  She 
arraigned  her  own  selfishness,  and  condemned  it.  She 
desired  to  rejoice  in  her  sister's  new  happiness — if  happi- 
ness it  was.  Yet  to  her  it  seemed  rather  as  a  passionate 


THE    TWINS.  17 


excitement,  awakened  by  an  uncongenial, — possibly  an 
unworthy  object,  and  she  wept  her  first,  lonely  tears. 

One  evening,  she  sate  long  in  the  recess  of  her  window, 
to  which  the  white  rose  had  climbed,  looking  in,  with  her 
countless  family  of  young  buds,  like  a  curious  and  familiar 
friend.  The  rich  moonlight  lay  like  a  curtain  upon  dale 
and  hillock,  touching  the  masses  of  foliage  with  enchant- 
ment, and  making  every  leaf  that  quivered  in  loneliness, 
transparent. 

From  a  lower  apartment  came  the  voices  of  the  lovers, 
sometimes  interrupted,  sometimes  in  recitative  ;  one  rapid 
and  exulting,  the  other  tender  as  the  murmur  of  the 
stock- dove. 

It  was  late  ere  Rosa  entered  the  chamber.  Then,  she 
folded  her  waiting  sister  in  a  close  embrace. 

"  Oh  Lilian,  Lilian,  forgive  me.  It  is  not  now  with  us 
as  in  times  past,  and  the  fault  is  mine.  When  Arthur's 
footstep  is  heard,  I  forget  all  beside.  When  he  speaks, 
I  hear  no  other  sound.  When  he  is  gone,  his  words  keep 
possession,  and  his  image  lingers,  shutting  out  all  sur- 
rounding things.  At  morn  I  awake,  and  his  name  is  first 
in  my  prayer,  then  yours,  then  my  own.  Methinks  my 
soul  hath  escaped,  and  his  hath  taken  its  place." 

She  paused,  in  the  rush  of  emotion,  and  bowed  her 
flushed  cheek  to  that  of  her  sister,  and  held  her  breath 
to  listen,  but  there  was  no  reply. 

"  Lilian,  sometimes,  since  this  has  come  upon  me,  you 
have  spoken  and  I  have  not  answered,  or  I  fear  me,  have 


18  THE    TWINS. 


answered  amiss.  Your  voice  put  to  flight  trains  of 
thought,  that  were  like  ladders  of  roses,  where  angels 
descended.  Is  it  my  weakness,  Lilian  ?  or  a  new  strength 
which  has  been  revealed  in  me  ?  I  feel  that  it  can  never 
be  again  with  us,  as  in  the  days  that  were,  when  only 
your  arm  was  around  me,  on  the  cradle-pillow,  and  at 
our  mother's  grave.  Sometimes  I  feel  a  pang,  as  if  I 
had  forsaken  you.  And  yet,  I  repent  not.  Ah  !  how  can 
I  make  reparation  to  you, — so  long  my  other  self  ?" 

Lilian  raised  her  face  from  the  fair  neck  of  her  sister, 
where  she  had  hidden  it,  their  tresses  of  pale  gold  inter- 
mingling like  tendrils  from  the  same  vine.  It  was  pale, 
but  of  a  saintly  mildness,  for  the  struggle  was  past. 

"  So  it  must  be, — so  it  ought  to  be.  If  you  are  to 
walk  with  Arthur,  the  path  of  this  checkered  life,  it  is 
fitting  that  he  be  henceforth  your  more  than  sister,  and 
your  next  to  God.  If  I  have  ever  repined,  when  you 
seemed  first  to  put  me  from  you,  that  is  past.  Selfish 
and  sinful  should  I  indeed  be,  if  your  happiness  were 
not  my  own.  But  are  you  assured  that  this  new  path 
leadeth  to  happiness?  that  this  guide  unto  death,  is 
wisely  chosen  ?" 

"Lilian!"  and  there  was  a  solemnity  in  her  tone,  deep- 
ening almost  to  sternness,  "  Lilian,  such  a  doubt  you  have 
before  spoken.  Let  it  be  uttered  no  more.  For  hence- 
forth, where  he  goeth,  will  I  go  ;  and  where  he  dieth,  will 
I  be  buried ;  his  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  his  God 
my  God, — yea !  if  he  have  no  God,  1  will  have  none  also." 


THE    TWINS.  19 


The  listening  sister  shuddered,  but  spoke  not.  She 
knelt  long  in  her  accustomed  orison,  and  laid  herself 
down  by  Rosa's  side,  but  that  night  she  slept  not. 

It  was  deemed  expedient  by  the  friends  of  Arthur, 
that  he  should  pass  a  year  at  the  south,  in  the  prosecu- 
tion of  some  important  business,  ere  the  completion  of 
his  marriage.  The  parting  of  the  lovers  was  trying,  and 
tumultuous  with  emotion.  Perpetual  and  diffuse  epistles 
seemed  their  only  relief. 

"  Oh  Lilian !  dearest,  here  is  the  most  perfect  letter 
from  the  adored.  Listen,  while  I  read  a  few  passages. 
And  yet  I  can  more  rapidly  tell  you  its  purport.  We 
must  go  to  him." 

"  Go  to  him !" 

"  Yes,  Lilian,  yes.  He  is  so  miserable.  He  cannot 
survive  longer  alone.  He  is  pining  away  at  heart." 

"  He  has  been  absent  nearly  half  his  probation.  Think, 
in  a  few  months  he  will  return.  It  is  improper,  and 
impossible  for  us  to  go  to  him." 

"  Call  nothing  impossible,  that  Love  wills.  His  busi- 
ness will  probably  detain  him  another  year.  Let  me 
write,  and  give  him  permission  to  come  on  for  us.  Let 
me  say  that  we  will  accompany  him  back,  and  make  his 
wilderness  an  Eden." 

"  Rosa,  my  sister,  write  him  to  be  patient.  You  surely 
cannot  be  serious  ?" 

"  Lilian,  you  must  not  so  love  this  abode,  and  the  flowers 
that  you  are  forever  training.  Arthur  will  find  us  a  home 


20  THE    TWINS. 


equally  beautiful  at  the  sunny  south.  I  take  no  pleasure 
in  the  things  that  I  once  thought  so  beautiful,  for  how 
can  I  be  happy,  while  he  is  an  exile  and  desolate." 

It  was  touching  to  see  the  twin-hearts,  which  but  one 
passion  had  ever  separated,  still  soothing  each  other,  and 
striving  to  harmonize  their  widely  diverging  sentiments. 
Like  a  stream  suddenly  parted,  one  was  rushing  on,  under 
the  sparkling  sunbeam,  it  knew  not  whither ;  the  other 
turning,  in  sadness,  back  to  the  shaded  fountain  where 
they  were  as  one.  But  in  all  their  communion,  it  became 
more  evident  that  one,  through  the  infusion  of  an  earthly 
love,  was  becoming  troubled  and  wayward ;  while  the 
other  sought  to  be  a  humble  student  of  that  which  is 
divine. 


A  letter,  with  a  black  seal.  It  was  in  the  hand  of  the 
venerable  Pastor  who  had  laid  their  mother  in  the  grave, 
and  regarded  with  Christian  tenderness  her  orphan  dear 
ones.  His  step  was  slow,  and  his  voice  hesitating,  as  he 
inquired  for  Lilian. 

"  Yes,  and  for  Rosa  too,"  said  a  merry  voice,  as  a  fair, 
young  creature  bounded  in  beside  him.  So  hasty,  beau- 
tiful being,  to  drink  the  dregs  of  bitterness  !  They  might, 
perchance,  have  been  softened  for  thee,  by  oozing  through 
the  crucible  of  thy  kindred  heart. 

Ha !  raise  her  there,  from  the  deadly  swoon.  Bend 
over  her,  sister-spirit.  Lift  up  thy  soul  in  prayer,  thou 
pitying  man  of  God.  '  , 


THE    TWINS.  21 


See,  the  water  revives  her.  But  with  piercing  shrieks, 
and  hands  clasped  in  spasms,  she  faints  again.  Oh  mis- 
ery !  Days  and  nights  pass.  And  the  only  sound  from 
those  pale  lips,  that  darkened  chamber,  is  the  frantic  cry, 
"  He  is  dead, — dead." 

Yes.  He  had  fallen  in  a  duel,  spurred  on  by  sudden 
wrath,  and  the  wine-frenzy.  Months  fled,  and  at  length 
the  physical  strength  of  the  bereaved  one  triumphed. 
She  came  forth  once  more,  but  how  changed.  The 
wrinkle  of  despair  was  on  her  brow.  She  had  suffered, 
but  not  submitted.  He,  who  had  taken  away  the  idol, 
was  to  her,  as  a  foe. 

On  the  sympathizing  sister  it  would  seem  that  the 
burden  of  years  had  been  suddenly  laid.  Every  trace 
of  color  had  faded  from  cheek  and  lip.  Harrowing 
anxiety  had  absorbed  every  feeling  of  her  nature,  except 
that  which  communed  in  devotion  with  her  Father  above. 
A  childlike  spirit  spoke  from  the  pale  brow,  which  was 
continually  turned  in  watchful  tenderness  to  one,  that, 
clouded  and  darkened,  evinced  little  reciprocity,  and  no 
resignation. 

"  Rosa,  dearest,  hear  the  birds,  how  they  pour  out  the 
very  soul  of  melody.  Or  shall  I  sing  for  you,  one  of 
those  simple  airs  that  we  used  to  play  together  ?" 

"  There  was,  for  me,  but  one  voice  of  music.  It  is 
silenced,  and  I  am  deaf  to  melody." 

"  Oh,  look  to  God.  He  hath  comfort  for  the  sorrow- 
stricken." 


22  THE    TWINS. 


"Was  it  not  He  who  smote  down  my  heart's  only 
prop  ?  And  say  you,  He  hath  comfort  to  offer  ?  He 
hath  taken  away  the  lone  star  by  which  I  steered.  The 
taper  that  I  held  ever  in  my  hand,  is  dashed  into  dark- 
ness. Are  the  glories  of  his  own  Heaven  the  brighter  ?" 

Poor  Lilian  shrank  away  at  her  words.  Madness,  and 
the  spirit  of  defiance  seemed  to  have  been  the  fruit  of  her 
chastisement.  More  widely  than  ever  apart,  flowed  the 
stream  of  life  of  the  two  lone  sisters,  who  at  first,  like 
kindred  drops,  were  mingled  into  one. 


"  Our  good  Pastor  has  waited  long  for  you,  this  morn- 
ing, dear  Rosa.  He  has  been  often  here  to  inquire  for 
you  since  you  have  been  able  to  leave  your  room.  Will 
you  not  see  him  now  ?" 

"  Excuse  me  to  him.  I  am  not  in  spirits  for  conversa- 
tion." 

"He  will  surely  expect  an  interview.  His  interest  in 
the  departed,  as  well  as  in  us,  require  this  attention." 

Crimson  flashed  over  the  face  of  Rosa,  dyeing  her  fore- 
head, even  to  the  roots  of  the  golden  hair. 

"  Interest  in  the  departed !  If  by  this,  you  mean  in 
Arthur,  I  know  that  he  rebuked  him,  and  that  he  never 
forgave  him.  Neither  will  I." 

"  His  warning  was  in  kindness.     He  feared" 

"  Nay,  he  numbered  him  with  riotous  drinkers  of  wine. 
And  what  if  he  was  ?  Whoever  lifted  against  him,  the 


THE    TWINS. 


23 


voice  of  blame,  /  hate.  Rather  would  I  be  a  partaker  of 
his  fault,  who  was  as  my  own  soul,  than  in  their  pride 
of  sanctity,  who  frowned  upon  him." 

Her  tones,  and  gestures,  her  excited  and  unfeminine 
manner,  shocked  the  meek-hearted  sister.  But  alas  !  they 
announced  no  discovery.  Her  participation  in  the  frailty 
of  her  fallen  lover,  was  already  written  on  her  brow. 


Years  slowly  departed,  and  many  comforts  vanished 
from  the  habitation  of  the  sisters.  Their  table  was  less 
bountiful.  The  waiter  was  dismissed,  and  the  gardener 
who  had  so  long  tended  those  beautiful  grounds,  once 
the  parents'  pride. 

In  their  place,  wrought  a  gentle  being,  somewhat 
bowed  by  time,  but  more  by  sorrow.  In  the  illnesses  of 
Rosa,  she  was  also  the  nurse.  And  the  post  was  no 
sinecure.  Her  forbearance,  her  watchfulness,  the  self- 
denying  spirit  which  says  "  thy  will  be  done,"  were  but 
in  too  frequent  requisition.  Lightly  as  a  dream  she  glided 
about,  though  in  her  heart  was  a  rankling  arrow.  She 
fain  would  have  hidden  her  wound,  and  its  anguish.  She 
nattered  herself  that  it  was  a  secret.  Alas ! 


"  Mistress  Lilian,"  said  the  old  servant,  the  only  one 
whom  they  retained,  "  you  are  so  pale,  and  eat  so  little. 
But  to  be  sure,  there  is  not  much  to  tempt  your  appetite, 


24  THE    TWINS. 


nowadays.  I'm  often  thinking  of  the  good  old  times, 
when  my  master  came  home  from  sea,  and  the  china- 
oranges  were  as  plenty  as  blackberries,  and  the  pine- 
apples, and  the  tamarinds,  and  the  chickens.  Mercy  on 
me,  I  think  I  could  dress  such  a  dinner  as  you  would  eat, 
if  I  had  but  the  things.  Sad  changes  I  've  seen  in  my 
day,  Mistress  Lilian." 

"  We  must  expect  changes,  you  know,  if  we  live  long 
in  a  changing  world." 

"And  why  do  ye  wear  that  poor,  threadbare  gown 
and  hood,  that  look  as  if  they  came  out  of  the  ark.  What 
would  the  lady,  my  old  mistress,  have  said,  could  she 
have  lived  to  see  this  day, — she  who  would  always  have 
you  dressed  in  the  best,  from  your  cradle  ?"  • 

"  I  have  little  need  to  dress  now,  I  go  out  so  seldom. 
Besides,  I  have  told  you  that  we  are  not  able  to  afford 
what  we  once  could." 

"  Oh !  but  ye  're  always  able  to  save  something  for  the 
poor.  And  wherefore  is  it  that  you  cannot  afford  your- 
self the  comforts  you  've  been  used  to,  so  feeble  as  you  be, 
and  needing  them  so  much.  Ah,  wherefore,  Miss  Lilian  ? 
And  wherefore  is  it  that  so  much  strong  drink  goes  to 
yonder  chamber  ?  I  would  there  were  fewer  full  decanters 
and  more  food." 

And  the  faithful  creature  wept  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"  It  is  not  for  myself  that  I  care,  Miss  Lilian,  it  is  not 
for  myself.  But  when  I  hear  the  continual  call  for  what 


THE    TWINS. 


25 


does  harm,  and  you  working  and  waiting  from  morning  till 
night,  so  loving  and  so  patient,  like  a  very  angel,  never 
giving  a  cross  look  to  them  that's  destroying  you,  and 
trying  all  the  time  to  hide  the  sword  in  your  vitals,  I  cry, 
when  I  ought  to  sleep." 


Midnight,  in  the  chamber  of  the  twin-sisters.  And  a 
fearful,  invisible  form  was  there  also,  whose  shaft  is  never 
launched  in  vain.  There  were  wild  gaspings  for  breath, 
groans  and  snatches  of  lethargic  slumber. 

Then  a  voice  of  piercing  entreaty,  thrilling  and  tender 
as  a  quivering  harp-string. 

"  Oh  !  look  to  Him,  who  forgiveth  all  sin.  Turn  to  the 
Lamb  of  God.  Rosa !  Rosa !  pray  !" 

And  from  the  old  gray-haired  servant,  burst  forth  a 
cry,  "  Pray  !  pray  !" 


A  slow  opening  of  the  glassy  eyes.  They  seemed  to 
regard  nothing  distinctly.  Then  the  heavy  lids  closed, 
to  be  lifted  no  more. 

"  Sister !  say,  with  me,  Jesus !  Saviour !  have  mercy 
on  me." 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Press  my  hand,  beloved !  if  you  think  of  the  blessed 
Redeemer." 

No  movement. 


26  THE    TWINS. 


The  lips  of  the  living  were  joined  to  those  that  were 
to  speak  no  more.  Long  was  that  last  kiss,  but  unre- 
turned.  There  was  a  horror  of  deep  anguish,  when  those 
twin-souls  parted. 

The  lonely-hearted  knelt  beside  the  couch  of  the  loved 
and  lost.  She  laid  her  face  on  the  marble  bosom.  Sobs 
were  heard,  and  a  low  voice  of  supplication.  Then  all 
was  still. 

Morning  dawned,  and  they  would  fain  raise  the  mourner 
who  knelt  there  so  long.  They  would  fain  have  raised 
her, — but  their  hands  clasped  a  form  of  marble.  The 
chastened  and  peaceful  spirit  had  gone  home.  And  the 
bitter  weeping  of  the  old,  white-haired  servant,  alone 
broke  the  silence  of  the  death-chamber. 


THE  SUCCESSFUL  ADVOCATE. 

"  FATHER, — father,  storms  are  sweeping, 

Snows  are  drifting  wild  and  drear, 
Wintry  winds  to  conflict  leaping, 

Do  not  leave  us  lonely  here," — 
Half  in  fear,  and  half  in  gladness 
Eyes  with  tearful  lustre  bright, 
Still  that  voice  implored  in  sadness, 

"Father,  go  not  forth  to-night."  — 
So  the  father  staid,  and  with  childish  glee 
His  little  daughter  climbed  his  knee. 

"  Dearest  father,  what  a  pleasure 

Thus  thy  smiling  face  to  see, — 
Lo,  the  babe,  our  blessed  treasure, 

How  he  wondering  looks  at  thee : — 
Mother's  brow  is  bright  with  gladness, 

Gentler  seems  the  howling  wind, 
•  Home  hath  neither  gloom,  nor  sadness, 

While  thou  'rt  seated  here  so  kind." — 
And  the  father  bent  with  features  mild 
And  pressed  the  lips  of  the  loving  child. 


28  THE    SUCCESSFUL    ADVOCATE 

"  Father,  father,  mother  weepeth, 
Burdened  with  a  secret  care, 
Every  night,  before  she  sleepeth 

Is  thy  name  upon  her  prayer : — 
She,  that  cup  of  poison  dreadeth 

Which  thy  path  with  thorns  hath  sown, 
Like  an  angry  fiend  it  treadeth 

On  her  comforts,  and  our  own." — 
And  the  father  took  the  pledge,  whose  sway 
Was  joy  to  the  home  where  his  treasures  lay. 


WATER. 

THE  thirsty  flowrets  droop. — 

The  parching  grass 

Doth  crisp  beneath  the  foot,  and  the  wan  trees 
Perish  for  lack  of  moisture.     By  the  side 
Of  the  dried  rills,  the  herds  despairing  stand, 
With  tongue  protruded.     Summer's  fiery  heat 
Exhaling,  checks  the  thousand  springs  of  life. 
Marked  ye  yon  cloud  sail  forth  on  angel  wing  ? 
Heard  ye  the  herald-drops  with  gentle  force 
Stir  the  broad  leaves  ?  and  the  protracted  rain 
Waking  the  streams  to  run  their  tuneful  way  ? — 
Saw  ye  the  flocks  rejoice,  and  did  ye  fail 
To  thank  the  God  of  fountains  ? 

See  the  hart 

Pant  for  the  water  brooks.     The  fervid  sun 
Of  Asia  glitters  on  his  leafy  lair, 
As  fearful  of  the  lion's  wrath  he  hastes 
With  timid  footsteps  through  the  whisp'ring  reeds. 
Quick  plunging  'mid  the  renovating  stream, 
The  copious  draught  inspires  his  bounding  veins 
With  joyous  vigor. 


30 


Patient  o'er  the  sands, 
The  burden-bearer  of  the  desert  clime, 
The  camel,  toileth.     Faint  with  deadly  thirst 
His  writhing  neck  of  bitter  anguish  tells. 
Lo  !  an  oasis,  and  a  tree-girt  well, — 
And  mov'd  by  powerful  instinct,  on  he  hastes, 
With  agonizing  speed,  to  drink,  or  die. 


On  his  swift  courser,  o'er  the  burning  wild 
The  Arab  cometh.     From  his  eager  eye 
Flashes  desire.     Seeks  he  the  sparkling  wine 
Giving  its  ruby  color  to  the  cup  ? 
No !  to  the  gushing  spring  he  flies,  and  deep 
Buries  his  scorching  lip,  and  laves  his  brow, 
And  blesses  Allah. 

Christian  pilgrim,  come  ! 
Thy  brother  of  the  Koran's  broken  creed 
Doth  teach  thee  wisdom,  and  with  courteous  hand 
Nature,  thy  mother,  holds  the  crystal  cup, 
And  bids  thee  pledge  her  in  the  element 
Of  temperance  and  health. 

Drink  and  be  whole, 

And  purge  the  fever-poison  from  thy  veins, 
And  pass  in  purity  and  peace,  to  taste 
The  river  flowing  from  the  throne  of  God. 


DIVINE  AID. 

SHALL  the  form  the  Almighty  moulded 
For  the  creature  of  His  care, 

Shall  the  spirit  he  enfolded 
In  such  casket  frail  and  fair, 

Stain  the  beauty  He  imparted, 
Through  an  appetite  of  shame  ? 

Leave  affection  broken-hearted, 

Shuddering  o'er  a  tarnished  name  ? 

Oh!  forbid  it,  Thou  who  givest 
Armor  to  the  tempted  soul, 

Thou,  who  still  in  glory  livest, 
While  eternal  ages  roll : 

Through  this  brief  and  dark  probation 
Keep  us  from  such  evil  free 

Be  our  refuge  aud  salvation, 

Till  we  find  our  home  with  Thee. 


APPLES  OF  SODOM. 


'  Oh  !  what  is  life  thus  spent  1  and  what  are  they 
But  frantic,  who  thus  spend  it  7" 

COWPER. 


THE  heir  of  a  noble  house  grew  up  to  manhood.  His 
person  was  lofty,  and  his  step  commanding  and  proud. 
He  had  been  nurtured  in  halls  of  learning,  and  all  that 
wealth  could  lend  to  intellect  was  his.  He  dwelt  in  a 
stately  mansion,  and  many  waited  for  his  smile. 

In  his  ample  library,  were  gathered  the  wisdom  of 
ancient  sages,  and  the  varied  knowledge  of  modern  times. 
Tomes,  enriched  by  the  skill  of  the  engraver,  and  gay  in 
silk  and  gold,  strewed  his  tables.  There  he  sometimes 
lingered,  till  the  lamps  grew  pale,  and  the  fire  in  his  bur- 
nished grate  faded. 

But,  as  he  sate  in  his  deep  chair  of  velvet,  with  his 
feet  upon  an  embroidered  ottoman,  he  sometimes  dozed 
over  the  open  page.  For  a  wine-cup  was  beside  him 
there. 

Once  he  read,  from  a  classic  book,  of  the  apples  of 
Sodom.  But  deep  sleep  came  upon  him,  and  falling,  he 
lay  upon  the  rich  carpet.  His  servants&ore  him  to  his 


APPLES    OF    SODOM.  33 

couch,  and  when  his  head  sank  in  the  deep,  down  pillow, 
he  murmured  something  like  "  Apples  of  Sodom." 

Afterwards,  when  he  slept  long  among  the  books,  or 
his  feet  failed  in  the  hall,  and  they  laid  him  in  his  bed, 
as  one  without  strength,  they  said  to  each  other,  "Our 
master  hath  eaten  the  apples  of  Sodom."  But  beyond 
this,  they  spake  not,  for  they  loved  the  heir  of  that  an- 
cient house  where  they  had  so  long  been  fed. 

A  fair,  young  creature  was  seen  in  the  lofty  rooms  of 
that  princely  abode.  At  her  word,  the  marble  vases 
glowed  with  fresh  flowers,  and  guests,  robed  in  rich 
apparel,  gathered  round  the  costly  board.  At  her  word, 
the  steeds  moved  gracefully  in  the  proud  chariot,  for  she 
bore  over  that  household  the  authority  of  a  wife. 

Yet  was  there  something  at  her  heart,  that  gnawed 
like  a  secret  worm.  Of  this,  she  spake  not.  But  the 
green  leaves  of  hope  withered,  and  the  garlands  of  joy. 

She  lay  upon  a  silken  couch.  Perfumes  breathed 
around  her.  The  light  of  the  silver  lamp  was  shaded  by 
the  heavy  folds  of  silken  curtains,  and  the  steps  gliding 
around  her,  upon  the  thick,  and  radiant  carpet,  gave  no 
sound.  Then  the  wail  of  a  weak  infant  was  heard, — and 
the  soul  of  the  young  mother  departed. 

The  master  of  the  mansion  wept ;  but  with  his  tears 
were  drops  of  wine.  The  holy  fruits  of  sorrow  he  gath- 
ered not,  for  in  his  hand  were  the  apples  of  Sodom. 
Yet  the  little  feet  of  the  child  at  his  side,  made  music  in 


34  APPLES    OF    SODOM. 

his  heart,  and  he  saw  with  pride  that  the  dark  curls  round 
the  pure  forehead  were  like  his  own. 

The  boy  grew  in  strength  and  in  beauty.  His  heart 
reached  out  slight  tendrils  for  something  to  love,  and  took 
hold  both  of  the  evil  and  the  good.  Ere  the  eyes  of  the 
mind  were  fully  opened,  the  quick  passions  had  put  forth 
broad,  dark  leaves  to  drink  up  the  sunbeams. 

When  he  erred,  and  deserved  reproof,  or  when  he  did 
well,  and  needed  encouragement,  there  was  no  father, 
save  a  bloated  form  in  the  wine-trance.  He  became  a 
youth,  and  flattery  spake  to  him  soft  things. 

At  his  nod,  servants  went  and  came,  and  when  his 
splendid  equipage  rolled  along  the  pavement,  the  gazing 
crowd  said  that  he  was  happy.  But  they  knew  not,  that 
for  the  undisciplined  spirit  there  is  no  happiness. 

Years  rolled  on.  And  in  the  house  of  strangers, 
whence  issued  wild  shrieks,  and  exulting  shouts  without 
cause,  and  the  loud  laughter  of  the  maniac,  was  the  son  of 
the  drunkard.  Bolts  and  bars  restrained  him,  and  the 
glory  of  his  clustering  locks  was  shorn. 

He  raved  wildly,  calling  his  servants  to  his  aid,  and 
uttering  maledictions  because  they  came  not.  At  inter- 
vals, he  was  quiet,  and  wrote  upon  the  walls  of  his  cell, 
incoherent  thoughts.  There,  amid  broken  and  blotted 
lines,  might  be  traced  out,  "  Apples  of  Sodom." 

The  father  sate  in  his  lonely  halls.  He  scarcely 
mourned  for  his  lost  son.  An  equal  madness  was  up«n 
him,  and  a  greater  sin ;  for  they  were  voluntary.  The 


APPLES    OF    SODOM.  35 

habit,  which  like  a  tyrant  ruled  him,  had  been  his  own 
choice.  He  had  himself  forged  the  chains,  that  were 
dragging  him  to  the  lowest  hell. 

He  sate  in  his  lonely  halls.  Friends  had  forsaken  him, 
for  he  had  shown  kindness  to  none.  The  white  hairs 
of  age  were  upon  him,  yet  had  he  not  become  wise. 
Wealth  was  still  his,  but  he  enjoyed  it  not.  Neither 
gave  he  to  the  poor,  for  a  depraved  appetite  had  eaten 
up  his  sympathies. 

The  weakness  of  age  came  upon  him.  He  was  a  drivel- 
ler, and  full  of  disease.  His  old  servants  were  dead,  and 
the  new  mocked  him,  and  stole  his  substance.  His  dim 
eyes  discovered  not  their  thefts,  but  he  trusted  them  not, 
and  dwelt  with  them  as  among  enemies. 

None  pitied  him,  or  said,  "  Poor  old  man !"  for  his 
vice  had  made  him  an  abhorrence.  Memory  fled  away ; 
so  that  the  names  of  his  wife,  or  child,  woke  no  image  in 
his  soul.  Yet  he  forgot  not  the  wine-cup.  There  it 
stood,  ever  near  him,  and  he  drowned  in  it  the  last  light 
of  life. 

He  died.  And  the  bloated  corpse  scarce  retained  the 
form  of  humanity.  They  bore  him  to  his  tomb,  with  the 
pomp  of  mourning ;  with  steeds  slowly  pacing,  and  nod- 
ding their  sable  plumes :  for  he  was  the  heir  of  a  noble 
house.  Yet,  in  that  long  procession,  none  remembered 
aught  that  he  had  done  for  the  comfort  of  the  sorrowful, 
or  to  cause  his  name  to  be  gratefully  remembered  among 


APPLES    OF    SODOM. 


They  laid  down  the  dead,  in  the  tomb  with  his  fathers. 
And  methought,  from  their  coffins  issued  a  hollow  voice, 

"  Strength  was  thine,  and  manly  beauty ;  wealth,  and 
learning,  and  love,  and  the  joys  of  paternity ;  length  of 
days,  and  all  that  the  world  covets. 

"  Yet  hast  thou  come  unto  us  as  with  the  burial  of  a 
beast,  for  whom  none  weepeth.  Yea,  thou  didst  choose 
to  pare  the  Apples  of  Sodom,  and  feed  on  their  ashes  all 
the  days  of  thy  life.  So  hast  thou  found  bitterness  at  the 
latter  end." 


"ONLY  THIS  ONCE." 

NUMBERS  x.  17. 

'  Only  this  once :"  the  wine-cup  glowed, 

All  sparkling  with  its  ruby  ray, 
The  bacchanalian  revel  flowed, 

And  Folly  made  the  madness  gay. 

Then  he,  so  oft,  so  deeply  warned, 

The  sway  of  conscience  rashly  spurned, 

His  promise  of  repentance  scorned, 
And  coward-like,  to  guilt  returned. 

'  Only  this  once  :"  the  tale  is  told, 

He  wildly  quaff 'd  the  poisonous  tide; 
With  more  than  Esau's  frenzy  sold 
The  birth-right  of  his  soul,  and  died. 

I  do  not  say  that  breath  forsook 
The  clay,  and  left  his  pulses  dead, 

But  Reason  in  her  empire  shook, 
And  all  the  life  of  life  was  fled. 


38  "  ONLY    THIS    ONCE.' 


Then  angel  eyes  with  pity  wept, 

When  he,  whom  Virtue  fain  would  save, 
His  sacred  vow  so  falsely  kept, 

And  strangely  chose  a  drunkard's  grave. 

(  Only  this  once :"     Beware !  beware  ! 

Gaze  not  upon  the  blushing  wine  ; 
Repel  temptation's  siren  snare, 

And  prayerful  seek  for  strength  divine. 


DEATH'S  CHOICE. 

r- 

THE  shadowy  monarch,  on  his  throne  of  skulls, 
Sate,  wearied  and  displeased. 

"  My  cheerless  task 

Since  he  of  Eden  felt  a  brother's  hate," 
Down  to  the  brow  that  blanches  as  I  speak, 
Hath  known  no  respite.     Would  that  there  were  one 
With  whom  to  trust  my  cares  awhile,  and  snatch 
One  moment  of  repose.     Ho  !  ye  who  wait ! 
Give  notice  that  with  him  most  worthy  found 
By  previous  deeds,  to  waste  the  race  of  man, 
The  King  of  Terrors  will  delight  to  share 
The  glory  of  his  kingdom." 

Mighty  winds, 

Swollen  high  to  earthquake  violence,  and  tones 
Of  many  waters,  like  wild,  warring  seas, 
Proclaimed  the  edict,  while  the  lightning's  spear 
Wrote  it  in  flame  on  every  winged  cloud  : 
Yea,  with  such  zeal  the  elements  conspired 
To  publish  the  decree,  methought  there  lurked 
In  each,  some  latent,  lingering  hope,  to  win 
The  promised  regency. 


40  DEATH'S  CHOICE. 


The  Passions  came, 

Throned  on  their  storm-clouds,  and  with  varied  voice 
Thundering,  or  eloquent,  as  best  beseemed 
Their  several  natures,  boasted  how  to  quell 
Life's  feeble  springs. 

But  to  their  claims,  stern  Death 
Gave  credence  cold. 

Next,  fleshless  Famine  stalked, 
Followed  by  fierce,  unpitying  Pestilence, 
Still  ever  in  their  ear  a  mournful  sound, — 
The  weeping  of  the  nations. 

Loudly  shriek'd 

A  martial  trump,  and  on  his  bannered  car, 
War,  like  a  sovereign,  came.     Unnumbered  spoils 
Were  strewed  around  him,  and  the  blood  of  men 
Flowed,  as  a  river,  'neath  his  chariot  wheels. 
His  eagle  eye  the  promised  honor  scanned, 
As  an  undoubted  right.     But  still  pale  Death 
Pondered  and  spake  not,  till,  with  haughty  pride 
The  candidate  withdrew,  and  trembling  Earth 
Shrank  at  his  kindled  wrath. 

There  was  a  pause, 

As  if  none  dare  in  that  foiled  champion's  steps 
Essay  to  tread. 

At  length,  a  bloated  form 

Moved  slowly  on,  with  mixed  and  maddening  bowl. 
But  ere  the  footstool  of  the  throne  he  pressed, 
Death,  with  a  father's  fondness  hasting  down, 


DEATH'S  CHOICE.  41 


Embraced,  and  in  the  seat  of  empire  placed. 
Great  was  the  wonder,  but  none  dare  gainsay : — 
For  with  a  fearful  shout,  all  Nature's  foes, 
Diseases,  passions,  wars  and  sins,  confessed 
Intemperance  their  king,  and  at  his  feet 
Their  boasted,  time-cemented  trophies,  cast. 


VM  VOBIS  * 

Va  Vobis  /"  ye  whose  lip  doth  lave 

Too  freely  in  the  sparkling  wine, 
Regardless,  thougli  that  passion-wave 

Blot  from  your  soul  Heaven's  light  divine 
"  Vce  Vobis  /"  heed  the  warning  cry, 

Fly !  ere  the  leprous  taint  is  deep  ; 
Fly  !  ere  the  hour  of  doom  is  nigh, 

And  pitying  angels  cease  to  weep. 

VCR  Vobis  /"  ye  who  fail  to  read 

His  Name,  that  shines  Avhere'er  ye  tread, 
The  Alpha  of  our  infant  creed, 

The  Omega  of  the  sainted  dead  : 
It  glows  where'er  the  pencill'd  flowers 

Their  tablet  to  the  desert  show, 
Where'er  the  mountain's  rocky  towers 

In  shadow  wrap  the  vales  below. 

Where  roll  the  starry  worlds  on  high, 
In  glorious  order,  strong  and  fair ; — 

*  "  Woe  unto  you." 


43 


In  each  red  letter  on  the  sky 

The  Comet  writes,  'tis  there  !  'tis  there ! — 
'Tis  graved  on  Ocean's  furrowed  brow, 

On  every  shell  that  tints  the  shore, 
And  where  the  solemn  forests  bow, 

"  Vce  Vobis  /"  ye  who  scorn  the  lore. 

'  VCR  Vobis  /"  all  who  trust  in  earth, 

Who  lean  on  reeds  that  pierce  the  breast, 
Who  drain  the  foaming  cup  of  mirth, 

Or  seek  ambition's  storm-wreath'd  crest, — 
Who  early  rise,  and  late  take  rest, 

In  Mammon's  mine  the  careworn  slave, — 
Who  find  each  phantom-race  unblest, 

Yet  shrink  reluctant  from  the  grave. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 


"Care,  and  peril,  instead  of  joy, — 
Gnilt  and  dread  shall  he  thine,  rash  boy. 
Lo  !  thy  mantling  chalice  of  life 
Foameth  with  sorrow,  and  madness,  and  strife. 

It  is  well.    I  discern  a  tear  on  thy  cheek, — 
It  is  well.    Thou  art  humble,  and  silent,  and  meek. 
Now,  courage  again  !  and  with  peril  to  cope, 
Gird  thee  with  vigor,  and  helm  thee  with  hope. 

MARTIN  FARQUHAR  TCPPER. 

A  GROUP  of  villagers  surrounded  an  open  grave.  A 
woman,  holding  two  young  children  by  the  hand,  was 
bowed  down  with  grief.  There  seemed  to  be  no  other 
immediate  mourners.  But  many  an  eye  turned  on  them 
with  sympathy,  and  more  than  one  glistened  with  tears. 

In  a  small,  rural  community,  every  death  is  felt  as  a 
solemn  thing,  and  in  some  measure,  a  general  loss.  The 
circumstances  that  attended  it,  are  inquired  into,  and  re- 
membered ;  while,  in  cities,  the  frequent  hearse  scarce 
gains  a  glance,  or  a  thought,  from  the  passing  throng. 

On  this  occasion  it  was  distinctly  known,  that  Mr. 
Jones,  the  carpenter  of  the  village,  who  was  that  day 
buried,  had  led  a  reproachless  life,  and  that  his  death, 
by  sudden  disease,  in  the  prime  of  his  days,  would  be  an 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  45 

unspeakable  loss  to  his  wife,  and  little  ones.  Pitying 
kindness  stirred  in  the  hearts  of  those  honest  people, 
and  whatever  service  their  limited  means  allowed,  was 
promptly  rendered.  It  was  the  earnest  desire  of  the 
widow,  to  keep,  if  possible,  the  cottage  where  they  had 
resided  since  their  marriage ;  and  which  wras  the  more 
dear,  from  having  been  built  by  the  hands  of  her  hus- 
band. They  respected  her  diligence  and  prudence,  and 
at  their  seasons  of  fruit-gathering  and  harvest  she  was 
not  forgotten.  But  as  her  health,  which  had  been  worn 
down  by  watching  and  sorrow,  returned,  her  energies 
also  were  quickened  to  labor,  that  she  might  bring  up 
her  children  without  the  aid  of  charity  :  and  her  efforts 
were  prospered. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years,  it  was  thought  advisable 
for  her  daughter,  who  was  ingenious  with  the  needle,  to 
go  to  a  neighboring  town  and  obtain  instruction  in  the 
trade  of  a  dressmaker.  Richard,  who  was  two  years 
younger,  remained  with  his  mother,  attending  in  winter 
the  village-school,  and  at  other  periods  of  the  year,  find- 
ing occasional .  employment  among  the  farmers  in  the 
vicinity.  It  was  seen  by  all,  how  much  the  widow's 
heart  was  bound  up  in  him,  and  how  she  was  always 
devising  means  for  his  improvement  and  happiness. 

But  as  Richard  grew  older,  he  liked  the  society  of 
idle  boys,  and  it  was  feared  did  not  fully  appreciate,  or 
repay  her  affection.  He  was  known  to  be  addicted  to 
his  own  way,  and  had  been  heard  to  express  contempt 


46  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

for  the  authority  of  women.  There  were  rumors  of 
his  having  frequented  places  where  liquors  were  sold ; 
yet  none  imagined  the  disobedience  and  disrespect  which 
that  lonely  cottage  sometimes  witnessed,  for  the  mother 
complained  only  to  her  God,  in  the  low  sigh  of  prayer. 
She  was  not  ahle  to  break  his  intimacy  with  evil  associ- 
ates, and,  ere  he  reached  his  eighteenth  year,  had  too 
much  reason  to  believe  him  a  partaker  in  their  vices. 

It  was  supposed  that  she  was  unacquainted  with  his 
conduct,  because  she  spoke  not  of  it  to  others,  and  con- 
tinued to  treat  him  with  tenderness.  But  deep  Love, 
though  sometimes  willing  to  appear  blind,  is  quick-sighted 
to  the  faults  of  its  object.  It  may  keep  silence,  but  the 
glance  of  discovery,  and  the  thrill  of  torture,  are  alike 
electric. 

The  widowed  mother  had  hoped  much  from  the  return 
of  her  daughter,  and  the  aid  of  her  young,  cheerful 
spirit,  in  rendering  their  home  attractive.  Her  arrival, 
in  full  possession  of  her  trade,  with  the  approbation  of 
her  employers,  gave  to  her  lone  heart  a  joy  long  un- 
tasted.  Margaret  was  an  active  and  loving  girl,  graceful 
in  her  person,  and  faithful  to  every  duty.  Her  industry 
provided  new  comforts  for  the  cottage,  while  her  inno- 
cent gayety  enlivened  it. 

The  widowed  mother  earnestly  besought  her  assist- 
ance, in  saving  their  endangered  one  from  the  perils  that 
surrounded  him ;  and  her  sisterly  love  poured  itself  out 
upon  his  heart,  in  a  full,  warm  flood.  It  would  seem 


THE     WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  47 


that  he  caught  the  enthusiasm  of  her  example ;  for  he 
returned  with  more  of  diligence  to  his  former  labors, 
while  his  intervals  of  leisure  were  spent  at  home.  When 
his  mother  saw  him  seated  by  their  pleasant  little  hearth, 
sometimes  reading  to  Margaret,  while  she  plied  the 
needle,  or  occasionally  winding  her  silks,  and  arranging 
the  spools  in  her  work-table,  their  young  voices  mingling 
in  song,  or  laughter,  she  felt  how  powerful  was  the  in- 
fluence of  a  good  sister,  and  lifted  up  her  soul  in  praise 
to  the  Rock  of  their  salvation.  Somewhat  more  of  filial 
respect  and  observance  she  might  have  desired,  but  was 
content  that  her  own  claims  should  be  overlooked,  might 
he  only  be  rescued.  Months  fled,  and  her  pallid  cheek 
had  already  resumed  the  tinge  of  a  long-forgotten  happi- 
ness. 

One  day,  when  spring  made  the  earth  beautiful,  on 
entering  suddenly  Margaret's  little  chamber,  she  surprised 
her  in  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  My  daughter !     My  dear  child  !" 

"  Oh,  mother !     I  wish  you  had  not  come,  just  now." 

"Tell  me,  are  you  sick?" 

"  No,  not  sick.     Only  my  heart  is  broken." 

"  Can  you  not  trust  me  with  your  trouble  ?" 

Long  and  bursting  sobs  followed,  with  stifled  attempts 
at  utterance. 

"  Mother,  we  have  been  so  happy,  I  cannot  bear  to 
destroy  it  all.  Richard, — my  poor  brother." 

"  Speak  !  what  has  he  done  ?" 


48  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


Hiding  her  face  in  her  mother's  bosom,  she  said  in 
broken  tones, — 

"You  ought  to  know, — I  must  tell  you.  It  cannot 
longer  be  concealed  that  he  often  comes  home  late,  and 
disguised  with  liquor.  I  tried  to  shut  out  the  truth  from 
myself.  Then  I  tried  to  hide  it  from  others.  But  it  is 
all  in  vain." 

"Alas  !  I  thought  he  was  changed,  that  your  blessed 
hand  had  saved  him.  Tell  me  what  you  have  dis- 
covered." 

"  I  would  fain  spare  you.  But  I  have  seen  enough, 
for  weeks  past,  to  destroy  my  peace.  Last  night,  you 
had  retired  before  he  came.  He  entered  with  a  reeling 
step,  and  coarse,  hateful  words.  I  strove  to  get  him 
silently  to  his  bed,  lest  he  might  disturb  you.  But  he 
withstood  me.  His  fair  blue  eyes  were  like  balls  of  fire ; 
and  he  cursed  me,  till  I  fled  from  him." 

The  mother  clasped  her  closer  to  her  heart,  and  bathed 
her  brow  with  tears. 

"Look  to  Him,  my  child,  who  ordereth  all  our  trials. 
Night  after  night,  have  I  spent  in  sleepless  prayer  for  the 
poor,  sinful  boy." 

"  Ah  !  then  you  have  known  it  long.  Mother,  you  have 
been  too  indulgent.  You  should  warn  and  reprove  him, 
and  give  him  no  rest,  until  he  repent  and  forsake  his 
sin." 

"  All  that  was  in  my  power  to  do,  has  been  faithfully 
done.  I  have  not  spared  him.  But  he  revolted.  He 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  49 

despised  my  woman's  voice,  my  motherly  love.  I  forbore 
to  distress  your  young  heart  with  all  that  I  might  have 
revealed.  I  feared  to  damp  the  courage  on  which  my 
hopes  were  built.  I  told  you  freely  of  his  danger  from 
evil  associates,  but  relied  on  the  power  of  your  love  too 
much,  too  fondly.  Yet  you  have  been  an  angel  to  him, 
and  to  me." 

"  Mother,  I  will  myself  rebuke  him.  I  will  speak  for 
you,  and  for  God." 

"  Margaret,  may  He  give  you  wisdom.  Should  your 
brother's  mind  not  be  in  a  right  state,  your  words  will  be 
hurled  tack  upon  your  own  head.  Sometimes,  I  have 
poured  out  my  whole  soul  in  reproof.  Then,  again,  I 
have  refrained,  to  save  him  from  the  sin  of  cursing  his 
mother.  Yet  speak  to  him,  Margaret,  if  you  will.  May 
God  give  power  to  your  words.  Still,  I  cannot  but  fear 
lest  you  take  a  wrong  time,  when  his  feelings  are  in- 
flamed with  intemperance." 

"  Be  at  peace,  in  this,  dearest  mother.  I  will  not 
broach  such  a  subject  but  at  a.  fitting  time." 

The  mother  had  little  hope  from  the  intended  appeal 
of  her  daughter.  Indeed,  she  shrank  from  it,  for  she 
best  knew  the  temper  of  her  son.  Yet  she  humbled  her- 
self to  go  to  the  vender  of  liquor,  and  beseech  him  to 
withhold  it  from  him,  in  the  name  of  the  widow's  God. 
Margaret  drooped  in  secret,  but  spoke  cheering  words  to 
her  brother,  with  an  unclouded  brow.  One  day,  he  had 
aided  her  in  some  slight  operation  in  the  garden,  with 


50  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

unwonted  kindness.  She  fancied  that  she  saw  in  his  eye, 
the  reviving  spirit  of  better  days.  Throwing  her  arm 
around  his  neck,  she  said, — 

"  Brother  Richard,  you  can  be  so  good.  How  I  wish 
it  were  always  thus." 

"  Always  to  be  working  under  your  orders,  I  suppose. 
No  doubt,  that  would  be  quite  pleasing.  All  you  women 
like  to  rule,  when  you  can." 

"Not  to  rule,  but  to  see  those  we  love  rule  them- 
selves." 

"  Is  that  what  you  tell  Will  Palmer,  when  he  sits  here 
so  long,  watching  you  like  a  cat,  and  looking  as  wise  as 
an  owl  ?  If  you  should  chance  to  marry  him,  you'd  tell 
him  another  tale,  and  try  all  ways  to  rule  him  yourself. 
Now,  Miss  Mag  Jones,  tell  the  whole  truth :  why  is  that 
same  deacon  that  is  to  be,  here  forever  ?" 

"  I  will  not  hide  anything  from  you,  dear  Richard, 
who  have  known  my  thoughts  from  my  cradle.  We  shall 
probably  be  married  in  the  autumn,  and  then" — 

"  And  then,  what  ?" 

"  Oh,  brother !  then,  I  hope  you  will  do  all  in  your 
power  to  comfort  mother,  when  I  shall  not  be  here." 

"  Not  be  here  !  Do  you  expect  to  move  to  Oregon,  or 
sit  on  the  top  of  the  Andes,  with  this  remarkable  sweet- 
heart of  yours  ?" 

"  We  shall  not  leave  this  village.  But  when  I  have  a 
new  home  and  other  duties,  I  hope  you  will  be  daughter 
and  son  both,  to  our  poor  mother.  Remember  how  hard 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  51 

she  has  worked  to  bring  us  up,  how  she  has  watched  us 
in  sickness,  and  prayed  for  us,  at  all  times.  Her  only 
earthly  hope  is  in  us  ;  especially  in  you,  her  son." 

"  Margaret,  what  are  you  driving  at  ?" 

"  Oh,  Richard !  forsake  those  evil  associates,  who  are 
leading  you  to  ruin.  Break  off  the  habit  of  drinking,  that 
debases,  and  destroys  you.  For  the  sake  of  our  widowed 
mother,  for  the  sake  of  our  father's  unblemished  memory, 
for  the  sake  of  the  sister,  who  loves  you  as  her  own 
soul" — 

"  For  the  sake  of  what  else  ?  Bill  Palmer,  I  presume. 
Is  there  never  to  be  an  end  to  these  women's  tongues  ? 
So  it  has  been  these  three  years ;  preach,  preach,  till  I 
have  prayed  for  deafness.  I  have  had  no  rest,  for 
Mrs.  Jones's  eternal  sermons ;  and  now  you  must  needs 
come  to  help  her,  with  your  everlasting  gab." 

-The  young  girl  heeded  not  that  his  eyes  flashed,  and 
that  the  veins  of  his  neck  were  swollen  and  sanguine. 
Throwing  off  the  timidity  of  her  nature,  she  spoke  slowly, 
and  with  solemn  emphasis,  as  one  inspired. 

"  If  you  have  no  pity  on  the  mother  who  bore  you,  no 
tender  memory  of  the  father  who  laid  his  hands  on  your 
head,  when  they  were  cold  in  death ;  no  regard  for  an 
honest,  honorable  reputation ;  at  least,  have  some  pity  on 
your  own  undying  soul,  some  fear  of  the  bar  of  judg- 
ment, of  the  worm  that  never  dies,  and  seek  mercy  while 
there  is  hope,  and  repent,  that  you  may  be  forgiven." 

•'  I  tell  you  what,  I'll  not  bear  this  from  you.     I  know 


52  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

something  to  make  fine  words  out  of,  too.  Your  mother 
has  been  slandering  me,  prohibiting  the  traffic  in  liquor, 
I  understand  :  for  aught  I  know,  you  were  her  spokes- 
man. Wise  women  !  as  if  there  was  but  one  place  on 
this  round  world,  where  it  is  sold.  Hypocrites  you  are, 
both  of  you !  making  boast  of  your  love,  and  publishing 
evil  against  me.  Look  out,  how  you  drive  a  man  to 
desperation.  If r  you  see  my  face  no  more,  thank  your- 
selves !" 

And  with  a  hoarse  imprecation,  he  threw  himself  over 
the  garden  fence,  and  disappeared.  That  night  there  was 
agonizing  grief  in  the  pleasant  cottage,  tears,  and  listen- 
ing for  the  feet  that  came  not.  '  Then,  were  days  of  vain 
search,  an  1  harrowing  anxiety,  closed  by  sleepless  watch- 
ings.  Alas !  for  the  poor  mother's  heart !  What  had 
the  boy  been  left  to  do  ?  what !  Had  not  his  sister 
been  too  severe  ?  Would  that  her  reproaches  had  been 
less  sharp  to  his  sore  heart,  or  that  she  had  taken  a  better 
time,  when  he  might  have  been  more  patient.  Thus 
travailed  the  yearning  heart  of  the  mother,  with  the  old, 
blind  Eden-policy,  vain  excuse. 

Again  another  tide  of  struggling  emotion.  Would  he 
but  come,  even  as  he  had  so  often  done,  with  unequal 
steps,  and  muttered  threatenings.  Would  he  only  come, 
that  the  Love  which  had  nursed  his  innocent  infancy, 
might  once  more  look  upon  his  face.  Then  swept  terri- 
ble thoughts  over  the  mother's  soul,  images  of  reckless 
crime,  and  ghastly  suicide.  But  she,  gave  them  not 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  53 

utterance  to  the  daughter  who  sate  beside  her,  working 
and  weeping.  For  she  said,  the  burden  of  the  child  is 
already  greater  than  she  can  bear. 

Yet  he,  who  was  the  cause  of  all  this  agony,  hastened 
night  and  day  from  the  quiet  spot  of  his  birth,  towards 
the  sea-coast,  boiling  with  passion.  He  conceived  him- 
self to  have  been  utterly  disgraced  by  the  prohibition  of 
his  mother  to  the  seller  of  liquors,  not  feeling  that  the 
disgrace  was  in  the  sin  that  had  made  such  prohibition 
necessary.  He  wildly  counted  those  who  most  loved  him, 
as  conspirators  against  his  peace ;  for  vice,  to  its  other 
distortions  of  soul,  adds  the  insanity  of  mistaking  the 
best  friends  for  enemies. 

Full  of  vengeful  purpose,  and  knowing  that  his  mother 
had  long  dreaded  lest  he  should  choose  the  life  of  a  sailor, 
he  hurried  to  a  seaport,  and  shipped  on  a  whaling  voyage. 
As  the  vessel  was  to  sail  immedately,  to  be  absent  more 
than  three  years,  and  he  entered  under  a  feigned  name, 
it  gave  him  pleasure  that  he  should  thus  baffle  pursuit  or 
discovery. 

"  Let  them  trace  me,  if  they  can,"  said  he ;  "  and 
when  I  get  back,  I'll  sail  again,  without  seeing  them. 
They  may  preach  now  as  long  as  they  please,  but  I'll  be 
out  of  their  hearing." 

Thus,  in  the  madness  of  a  sinful  heart,  he  threw  him- 
self upon  the  great  deep,  without  a  thought  of  kindness 
towards  man,  or  a  prayer  to  God.  Yet  he  was  ill-pre- 
pared for  the  lot  ofi  hardship  he  had  chosen, — the  coarse 


54  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

fare,  the  iron  sway,  the  long  night-watch,  and  the 
slippery  shroud  in  the  tempest.  To  drown  misery  in 
the  daily  allowance  of  liquor,  was  his  principal  resource, 
when  at  first  the  sea-sickness  seized  him,  and  afterwards, 
when  his  sea-sins  sank  him  still  lower  in  brutality.  Vile 
language,  bad  songs,  and  frequent  broils  were  the  enter- 
tainments of  the  forecastle ;  while  the  toilsome  duties  of 
a  raw  sailor  before  the  mast,  were  imbittered  by  the 
caprices  of  the  captain,  himself  a  votary  of  intemperance. 
A  stronger  shadowing  forth  of  the  intercourse  of  con- 
demned spirits  could  scarcely  be  given,  than  the  fierce 
crew  of  that  rude  vessel  exhibited,  shut  out,  for  years, 
from  all  humanizing  and  holy  influences.  Yet  strange  to 
say,  the  recreant,  who  had  abused  the  indulgences  of 
home  and  the  supplications  of  love,  derived  some  benefit 
where  it  could  least  have  been  anticipated.  Indolence 
was  exchanged  for  regular  employment,  and  he  learned 
the  new  and  hard  lesson  of  submission  to  authority ;  and 
whenever  a  lawless  spirit  is  enforced  to  industry,  and  the 
subjugation  of  its  will,  it  must  be  in  some  degree  a  gainer. 
So,  with  the  inconsistency  of  our  fallen  nature,  the  soul 
that  had  spurned  the  sunbeam,  and  hardened  under  the 
shower,  was  arrested  by  the  thunderblot,  and  taught  by 
the  lightning. 

In  the  strong  excitement  and  peril  of  conflict  with  the 
huge  monarch  of  the  deep,  he  gained  some  elevation, 
by  a  temporary  forgetfulness  of  self ;  for  that  one  image, 
long  magnified  and  dilated,  had  closed  the  mind  to  all 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  55 

ennobling  prospects,  and  generous  resolves.  The  dead- 
lights of  the  soul  had  been  so  long  shut  in,  that  the 
first  ray  that  streamed  through  them,  seemed  new  and 
wonderful. 

Accident  and  ill-fortune  protracted  their  voyage,  sev- 
eral months  beyond  its  intended  limits.  While  pursuing 
a  homeward  course,  some  seasons  of  serious  reflection, 
when  not  under  the  sway  of  intemperance,  came  over 
Richard  Jones.  For  he  was  not  utterly  hardened ;  and 
prayers  continually  rose  up  from  his  forsaken  home,  that, 
if  yet  in  the  land  of  the  living,  he  might  repent,  and  find 
hope.  Conscience,  at  times,  wrought  powerfully,  so  that 
he  dreaded  to  be  alone,  or  turned  as  a  refuge  to  the  vile 
revelry  -of  comrades  whom  he  despised. 

Once,  as  he  paced  the  deck  in  his  midnight  watch, 
while  the  vessel  went  rushing  onward  through  the  deep, 
dark  sea,  solemn  thoughts  settled  heavily  around  him. 
Here,  and  there,  a  star  looked  down  upon  him,  with 
watchful,  reproving  eye.  He  felt  alone,  in  the  presence 
of  some  mighty,  mysterious  Being.  Early  memories  re- 
turned ;  the  lessons  of  the  Sabbath-school,  the  plaintive 
toll  of  the  church-bell,  the  voice  of  his  mother,  as  seated 
on  her  knee,  she  taught  him  of  the  dear  Saviour,  who 
took  the  children  to  his  breast,  and  blessed  them. 

A  few  drops  of  rain,  from  a  passing  cloud,  fell  upon 
his  head.  In  the  excitement  of  the  reverie,  he  gasped, — 

"  These  are  her  tears  !    Yes !     Just  so  they  felt  on  my 


56  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


forehead,  when  she  used  to  beseech  me  to  forsake  the 
foolish,  and  live,  and  go  in  the  way  of  understanding." 

He  leaned  over  the  vessel's  ..side.  The  rain-drops 
ceased,  and  the  phosphorescence  of  the  waters  was  like 
a  great  lake  of  fire.  The  billows  rose,  tossing  their 
white  crests  for  a  moment,  and  then  sank  into  the 
burning  flood.  He  watched  them  till  his  brain  grew 
giddy.  Presently,  a  single  faint  moonbeam  shot  through 
the  cleft  of  a  cloud.  As  it  glimmered  over  the  surge, 
he  thought  a  face  loomed  up,  and  gazed  on  him, — a 
fair  young  face,  paler  than  marble.  A  hand  seemed 
to  stretch  itself  out,  arms  to  bend  in  an  embracing 
clasp,  a  floating  death-shroud  gleamed, — and  all  was 
lost  forever. 

"  Oh,  Margaret !  oh,  my  sister  !"  he  shrieked,  "just  so 
she  looked  when  she  adjured  me,  in  the  name  of  God,  to 
have  pity  on  my  poor  mother,  and  on  my  own  soul." 

As  if  he  had  witnessed  her  funeral  obsequies,  he  wept 
in  remorseful  grief.  His  watch  closed.  In  horror  of 
spirit,  he  retired,  but  nt>t  to  sleep.  Even  the  hardened 
men  who  surrounded  him  forbore  to  jeer,  when  they 
heard  him  moan  in  anguish,  "  Oh,  Margaret !  oh,  my 
sister !" 

These  strong  and  painful  impressions  scarcely  wore 
away  during  the  brief  remainder  of  the  voyage.  When 
he  saw  in  dim  outline,  the  hills  of  his  country  gleaming 
amid  the  clouds,  a  new  joy  took  possession  of  his  soul. 
And  when  his  feet  rested  again  on  the  solid  earth,  and 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER     SON.  57 

he  received  his  wages,  his  first  thought  was  to  hasten 
and  share  them  with  those  whom  he  had  so  recklessly 
forsaken. 

"  Will  you  come  to  my  house,  sir  ?"  said  a  man,  upon 
the  wharf,  near  him.  "  Good  accommodations,  sir,  for 
sailor  gentlemen.  Everything,  first  cut  and  first  cost." 

"  Where  is  your  house  ?" 

"  Near  by.  Here,  boy ;  take  this  fine  young  man's 
chest  along.  I'll  show  you  the  way,  sir.  The  favorite 
boarding-house  for  all  jolly,  noble-spirited  tars." 

It  was  evident  that  he  was  now  in  the  power  of  a 
land-shark.  Alas  !  for  all  his  hopes  :  the  struggles  of 
conscience,  the  rekindling  of  right  affections.  Tempta- 
tion, and  the  force  of  habit,  were  too  strong  for  him. 
Almost  continually  intoxicated,  his  hard  earnings  van- 
ished, he  knew  not  how,  or  where.  It  was  not  long  ere 
his  rapacious  landlord  pronounced  him  in  debt,  and 
produced  claims  which  he  was  unable  to  meet.  His 
chest  with  all  its  contents  was  seized,  and  he,  miserably 
clad,  and  half  bewildered,  was  turned  into  the  streets, 
by  his  sordid  betrayer. 

-  •  As  the  fumes  of  prolonged  inebriety  subsided,  horrible 
images  surrounded  him.  Smothered  resolutions,  and 
pampered  vices,  sprang  from  the  seething  caldron  of  his 
brain,  frowning  and  gibbering  like  ghostly  tormentors. 
Monstrous  creatures  grinned  and  beckoned,  and  when  he 
would  have  fled,  cold  slimy  serpents  seemed  to  coil 
around  and  fetter  his  trembling  limbs. 


58  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER     SON. 

Still,  with  returning  reason  came  a  deeper  misery. 
He  desired  to  die,  but  death  fled  from  him.  Covering 
his  face  with  his  hands,  as  he  sate  on  the  ground,  in  the 
damp,  chill  air  of  evening,  he  meditated  different  forms 
of  suicide.  He  would  fain  have  plunged  into  the  sea, 
but  his  tottering  limbs  failed  him.  Searching  for  his 
knife,  the  only  movable  that  remained  to  him,  he  ex- 
amined its  blunted  edge,  and  loosened  blade,  as  if  doubt- 
ing their  efficiency.  Thus  engaged,  by  the  dim  light  of 
a  street-lamp,  groans,  as  if  the  pangs  of  death  had 
seized  him,  burst  from  his  heaving  breast.  Half  believ- 
ing himself  already  a  dweller  with  condemned  spirits, 
he  started  at  the  sound  of  a  human  voice. 

"  Thee  art  in  trouble,  I  think." 

The  eyes  once  so  clear  in  days  of  innocence,  opening 
wide  and  wild,  glared  with  amazement  on  the  calm, 
compassionate  brow  of  a  middle-aged  man,  in  the  garb 
of  a  Quaker.  The  knife  fell  from  his  quivering  hand, 
and  sounded  on  the  pavement.  But  there  was  no  an- 
swer. 

"  Thee  art  in  great  trouble,  friend  !" 

"  Friend  !  Friend  !  Who  calls  me  friend  ?  I  have 
no  friends,  but  the  tormentors  to  whom  I  am  going." 

"  Hast  thou  a  wife  ?  or  children  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  God  be  thanked.  No  wife,  nor  children. 
I  tell  you  there  are  no  friends  left,  but  the  fiends  who 
have  come  for  me.  No  home,  but  their  eternal  fires. 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  59 

Shoals  of  them  were  here  just  now, — ready  !  aye,  ready!" 
and  he  laughed  a  demoniac  laugh. 

"  Poor,  poor  youth !     I  see  thee  art  a  sailor." 

"  I  was  once.  What  I  am  now,  I  know  not.  I  wish 
to  be  nothing.  Leave  me  to  myself,  and  those  that  are 
howling  around  me.  Here!  here!  I  come:"  and  he 
groped  aimlessly  for  his  lost  knife. 

The  heart  of  the  philanthropist  yearned,  as  over  an 
erring  brother.  The  spirit  of  the  Master  who  came  to 
seek  and  to  save  the  lost,  moved  within  him. 

"Alas!  poor  victim.  How  many  have  fallen,  like 
thee,  before  the  strong  man  armed.  Sick  art  thou,  at 
the  very  soul.  I  will  give  thee  shelter  for  the  night. 
Come  with  me,  to  my  home." 

"Home!  Home?"  shouted  the  inebriate,  as  if  he 
understood  him  not.  And  while  the  benevolent  man, 
taking  his  arm,  staid  his  uncertain  footsteps,  he  still 
repeated,  but  in  tones  more  humanized  and  tender, — 
"  Home  !  your  home  ?  What !  me  a  sinner  ?"  until  a  burst 
of  unwonted  tears  relieved  the  fires  within. 

And  as  that  blessed  man  led  him  to  his  own  house, 
and  laid  him  upon  a  good  bed,  speaking  words  of  com- 
fort ;  heard  he  not  from  above  that  deep,  thrilling  mel- 
ody, "  I  was  sick,  and  ye  visited  me,  in  prison,  and  ye 
came  unto  me.  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one 
of  these,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me  ?" 

With  reviving  day  the  sinful  man  revived;  humbled 
in  heart,  and  sad.  Subdued  by  suffering,  and  softened 


60  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

by  a  kindness,  which  he  felt  to  be  wholly  undeserved, 
he  poured  out  a  fervent  prayer  for  divine  aid  in  the 
great  work  of  reformation.  He  was  glad  to  avail  him- 
self, without  delay,  of  the  proposal  of  his  benefactor,  to 
enter  on  service  in  a  temperance  ship  ready  to  sail  im- 
mediately for  the  East  Indies. 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  the  captain,"  said  the  good 
man,  "  and  can  induce  him  to  take  thee.  I  am  also  in- 
terested in  the  vessel,  and  in  the  results  of  her  voyage. 
A  relative  of  mine,  goes  out  as  supercargo.  Both  of 
them  will  be  thy  friends,  if  thou  art  true  to  thyself. 
But  intemperance  bringeth  sickness  to  the  soul,  as  well 
as  to  the  body.  Wherefore,  pray  for  healing,  and  strive 
for  penitence,  and  angels  who  rejoice  over  the  returning 
sinner,  will  give  thee  aid." 

Self-abasement,  and  gratitude  to  his  preserver,  swelled 
like  an  overwhelming  flood,  and  choked  his  utterance. 

"  All  men  have  sinned,  my  son,  though  not  all  in  the 
same  way.  But  there  is  mercy  for  every  one  that  sor- 
roweth,  and  forsaketh  the  evil.  God  hath  given  me  the 
great  happiness  to  help  some  who  have  fallen  as  low  as 
thee.  Thank  Him,  therefore,  and  not  the  poor  arm  of 
flesh.  May  He  give  thee  strength  to  stand  firm  on  the 
Rock  of  salvation." 

Broken  words,  mingled  with  tears,  struggled  vainly 
to  express  the  emotions  of  the  departing  sailor.  His 
benefactor  once  more  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand, 
bade  him  farewell. 


THE    WIDOiV    AND    HER    SON.  61 


"  Peace  be  with  thee,  on  the  great  waters.  And  re- 
member to  strive  and  pray." 

A  new  world  seemed  to  open  upon  the  rescued  one. 
Of  the  quietness  and  order  that  pervaded  a  temperance 
ship,  he  had  no  anticipation.  There  were  neither  quar- 
rels nor  profanity,  so  common  among  the  crew,  nor  arro- 
gance, and  capricious  punishment,  on  the  part  of  those 
in  power.  Cheerful  obedience,  and  just  authority  pre- 
vailed, as  in  a  well-regulated  family.  He  was  both  sur- 
prised and  delighted  to  find  his  welfare  an  object  of 
interest  with  the  officers  of  the  ship,  to  receive  kind 
counsel  from  them,  and  to  be  permitted  to  employ  his 
brief  intervals  of  leisure  with  the  well-chosen  volumes 
of  a  seaman's  library. 

Still  it  was  not  with  him,  as  if  he  had  never  sinned. 
Not  all  at  once  could  he  respire  freely  in  a  pure  atmo- 
sphere. Physical  exhaustion,  from  the  withdrawal  of 
stimulants  to  which  he  had  been  long  accustomed,  some- 
times caused  such  deep  despondence,  that  life  itself 
seemed  a  burden. 

Cherished  vice  brings  also  a  degree  of  moral  obliquity. 
Every  permitted  sin  lifts  a  barrier  between  the  clear 
shining  of  God's  countenance,  and  the  cold  and  frail 
human  heart.  Perverted  trains  of  thought,  and  pol- 
luted remembrances  still  lingered  with  him,  and  feelings 
long  debased,  did  not  readily  acquire  an  upward*  tend- 
ency. Yet  the  parting  admonition  of  his  benefactor  to 
strive  and  pray,  ever  sounded  in  his  ears,  and  became 


62  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

the  motto  of  his  soul.  By  little  and  little,  through 
faithful  obedience,  he  obtained  the  victory.  His  im- 
provement was  noticed  by  others,  before  he  dared  to 
congratulate  himself ;  for  humility  had  strangely  become 
a  part  of  his  character,  who  once  defied  all  laws,  human 
and  divine.  His  countenance  began  to  resume  the  ingen- 
uous expression  of  early  years,  and  the  eyes,  so  long 
fiery,  or  downcast,  looked  up  with  the  clearness  of  hope. 

"  Blessings  on  the  temperance  ship !"  he  often  ejacu- 
lated, as  he  paced  the  deck  in  his  nightly  watch,  "  and 
eternal  blessings  on  the  holy  man,  who  snatched  me 
from  the  lowest  hell." 

At  his  arrival  in  a  foreign  port,  he  was  watchful  to 
avoid  every  temptation.  His  friend,  the  supercargo, 
took  him  under  his  especial  charge,  and  finding  him  much 
better  educated  than  is  usual  with  sailors,  gave  him  em- 
ployment of  a  higher  nature,  which  was  both  steady  and 
lucrative.  His  expenses  were  regulated  with  extreme 
economy,  that  he  might  lay  up  more  liberally  for  those 
dear  ones  at  home,  whose  images  became  more  and  more 
vivid,  as  his  heart  threw  off"  the  debasing  dominion  of 
intemperance,  and  its  host  of  evils. 

The  returning  voyage  was  one  of  unmingled  satisfac- 
tion. Compunction  had  given  place  to  a  healthful  virtue, 
whose  root  was  not  in  himself. 

"Why  is  this?"  he  often  soliloquized:  "why  should 
I  be  saved,  while  so  many  perish  ?  How  have  I  deserved 
such  mercy,  who  willingly  made  a  beast  of  myself,  through 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  63 

the  fiery  draught  of  intemperance  ?  Oh,  my  mother !  I 
know  that  thy  prayers  have  followed  me, — they  have 
saved  me." 

With  what  a  surpassing  beauty  did  the  hills  of  his 
native  land  gleam  upon  his  eye,  unfolding  before  him, 
like  angels'  wings.  He  felt  also,  that  an  angel's  mission 
was  his  to  the  hearts  that  loved  him,  and  which  he  in 
madness  had  wounded.  Immediately  on  reaching  the 
shore,  he  began  his  journey  to  them.  Stopping  his  ears 
to  the  sounds  of  the  city,  where  he  had  once  sunk  so 
low,  he  hurried  by  its  haunts  of  temptation,  less  from 
fear,  than  from  sickening  disgust. 

Autumn  had  ripened  its  fruits,  without  sacrificing  the 
verdure  of  summer.  It  was  the  same  season  that,  seven 
years  before,  he  had  traversed  this  region.  But  with 
what  contrasted  prospects,  and  purposes !  How  truly 
has  it  been  said,  that  no  two  individuals  can  differ  more 
from  each  other,  than  the  same  individual  may,  at  differ- 
ent periods  of  life,  differ  from  himself. 

Richard  Jones  scarcely  paused  on  his  way  for  sleep,  or 
for  refreshment.  He  sought  communion  with  none.  The 
food  of  his  own  thoughts  sufficed.  As  he  drew  near  the 
spot  of  his  birth,  impatience  increased  almost  beyond 
endurance.  The  rapid  wheels  seemed  to  make  no  prog- 
ress, and  the  distance  to  lengthen  interminably.  Quit- 
ting the  public  vehicle,  which  did  not  pass  that  secluded 
part  of  the  village  where  his  parental  cottage  was  situated, 
he  sought  it  in  solitude.  It  was  pleasant  to  him  to 


64  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


come  thus  unknown,  and  he  meditated  the  rapturous  sur- 
prise he  was  about  to  create. 

Those  rocks  !  that  river !  can  they  be  the  same  ?  The 
roof !  the  very  roof !  and  the  maple  that  shaded  it. — But 
the  garden-fence,  the  gate,  are  broken  and  gone.  Where 
is  the  honeysuckle  that  Margaret  trained  ?  He  was  about 
to  lift  the  latch, — to  burst  in,  as  in  days  of  old.  But 
other  thoughts  came  over  him,  and  he  knocked  gently,  as 
a  stranger ;  again,  more  earnestly. 

"Who  is  there?" 

It  was  a  broad,  gruff  accent.  He  opened  the  door ;  a 
large,  coarse  woman  stood  there,  with  sleeves  rolled  above 
her  red  elbows,  toiling  at  the  wash-tub. 

"  Does  the  Widow  Jones  live  here  ?" 

"  The  Widow  who  ?  why,  Lord,  no.  I  live  here  myself, 
to  be  sure." 

The  quivering  lips,  and  parched  tongue,  scarcely  articu- 
lated,— 

"  Where  is  Margaret  Jones  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  I  never  hearn  o'  such  a  one, 
not  I.  Tho'  I've  been  here,  and  hereabouts,  this  two 
year,  I  reckon." 

A  horror  of  great  darkness  fell  upon  the  weary  travel- 
ler. He  turned  from  the  door.  Whither  should  he  go  ? 
There  was  no  neighboring  house,  and  had  there  been,  he 
would  fain  have  hidden  his  misery  from  all  who  had  ever 
known  him.  Instinctively  he  entered  the  burial-ground, 
which  was  near  by.  There  was  his  father's  grave  with 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  65 


its  modest  stone,  where  he  had  been  so  often  led  in  child- 
hood. By  its  side  was  another,  not  fresh,  yet  the  sods 
were  imperfectly  consolidated,  and  had  not  gathered 
greenness.  He  threw  himself  upon  it, — he  grasped  a 
few  dry  weeds  that  grew  there,  and  waved  in  the  rising 
blast. 

"  This  is  to  be  alone  in  the  world !  Oh  God !  I  have 
deserved  it;  I  was  her  murderer!  but  I  dreamed  not  of 
such  misery !" 

Long  he  lay  there,  in  his  tempestuous  grief,  without 
being  sensible  of  a,faint  hollow  sound,  heard  at  regular 
intervals.  It  was  the  spade  of  the  sexton,  casting  up 
earth  and  stones  from  the  depth  of  a  grave,  in  which  he 
labored.  Even  his  deaf  ear  caught  the  voice  of  anguish, 
as  he  finished  his  work.  Coming  forward,  he  stood  in 
wonder,  as  if  to  illustrate  the  description  of  the  poet : 

"  Near  to  a  grave  that  was  newly  made, 
Lean'd  the  sexton  thin,  on  his  earth-worn  spade, — 
A  relic  of  by-gone  days,  was  he, 
And  his  locks  were  as  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea." 

Starting  at  that  withered  effigy,  which  in  the  dim  haze 
of  twilight  seemed  more  like  a  ghost  than  a  man,  he 
exclaimed, — 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  middle-aged  woman,  called 
the  Widow  Jones  ?" 

"  Hear  of  her !  I  know'd  her  well,  and  her  husband 
too.  An  honest,  hard-working  man  he  was ;  and  when 
he  died,  was  well  spoke  of,  through  all  this  village." 


66  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


And  his  wife  ?"- 


"  Why  everybody  pitied  her,  inasmuch  as  her  husband 
died  so  sudden,  and  left  leetle,  or  no  means  behind,  for 
her  and  the  children." 

"  There  were  children,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  two  on  'em.  She  worked  hard  enough,  to 
bring  'em  up,  I  guess.  I  remember  the  funeral,  as  if 
'twas 'only  yesterday.  I  stood  just  about  where  you  do 
now ;  and  I  used  this  spade,  the  very  first  time  it  ever 
was  used,  to  dig  that  same  grave." 

With  a  convulsive  effort,  as  when  one  plucks  a  dagger 
from  his  breast,  he  asked  faintly, — 

"  When  did  she  die  ?" 

"  Die  ?  mercy  on  you  !  Why,  I  don't  s'pose  she's  dead 
at  all.  Sure,  I  should  have  been  called  on  to  dig  the 
grave,  if  she  had  died :  that's  sartain.  I've  had  all  the 
business  of  that  sort,  in  these  parts,  as  you  may  say,  for 
this  forty  year,  and  better.  There  did  once  come  a  per- 
son from  the  North  country,  and  try  to  undersell  me. 
But  he  did'nt  do  his  work  thorough.  His  graves  caved 
in.  He  couldn't  get  a  living,  and  so  he  went  off.  I'll 
show  ye  one  of  the  graves  of  his  digging,  if  you'll  just 
came  along," 

"  Tell  me,  for  God's  sake !  if  the  Widow  Jones  still 
lives  ?" 

"  Why,  man !  what's  the  matter  on  ye  ?  you're  as 
white  as  the  tomb-stones.  I  tell  ye,  she's  alive,  for 
aught  I  know  to  the  contrary.  She  moved  away  from 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  67 


here,  a  considerable  time  ago.  It  an't  so  well  with  her, 
as  'twas  in  days  past." 

Grasping  the  sexton  strongly  by  the  arm,  he  de- 
manded,— 

"  Where  is  she  to  be  found  ?" 

"  Oh  Lord !  help  !  help  !  the  man  will  murder  me,  I 
verily  believe.  Did  ye  ever  hear  of  what  was  called  the 
stone-house  ?  just  at  the  hither  eend  of  the  next  village, 
after  you  cross  a  bridge,  and  go  up  a  hill,  and  turn  to 
the  right,  and  see  a  small  cluster  of  buildings,  and  a  mill, 
and  a  meetin'-house  ?  Well,  she  lives  there  in  a  kind  of 
a  suller-room,  for  I  was  a  telling  you,  I  expect,  she  an't 
none  too  well  off. — Goodness !  the  creature  is  gone  as  if 
he  wanted  to  ride  a  streak  o'  lightning,  and  whip  up.  He 
is  demented,  without  a  doubt.  What  a  terrible  risk  I've 
run  !  Deliver  us  from  crazy  men,  here  among  the  tombs. 
How  awful  my  arm  aches,  where  he  clutched  it." 

While  the  garrulous  sexton  made  his  way  to  his  own 
dwelling,  to  describe  his  mysterious  guest,  .and  imminent 
j:  eril  of  life ;  the  supposed  maniac  was  traversing  the 
intervening  space  with  breathless  rapidity.  Lights  began 
1o  glimmer  from  the  sparsely-sprinkled  dwellings.  The 
laborers,  returning  from  toil,  took  their  evening  repast 
A\ith  their  families.  Here  and  there,  a  blazing  hearth 
marked  the  dullness  of  advancing  autumn. 

Rushing  onward  towards  a  long,  low  building  of  gray 
stone,  which  appeared  to  have  many  tenants,  he  leaned  a 
moment  against  its  walls,  to  recover  respiration,  and 


68  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

bowing  down,  looked  through  an  uncurtained  window  in 
its  gloomy  basement.  By  the  flickering  light  of  some 
brush-wood,  burning  in  the  chimney,  he  saw  a  woman 
placing  the  fragments  of  a  loaf  upon  a  table,  beside  which 
sate  two  young  children.  She  was  thin,  and  bent ;  but 
having  her  head  turned  from  him,  he  was  unable  to  see 
her  features.  Could  that  be  her ;  so  changed  ?  Yet, 
the  "  come  in,"  that  responded  to  his  rap,  was  in  a  tone 
that  thrilled  his  inmost  soul. 

"  Have  you  any  food  to  bestow  ?  I  have  travelled  far, 
and  am  hungry." 

"  Sit  down,  sir,  here  at  the  table.  I  wish  I  had  some- 
thing better  to  offer  you.  But  you  are  welcome  to  our 
poor  fare." 

And  she  pushed  towards  him  the  bread  and  the  knife. 
He  cut  a  slice,  with  a  trembling  hand.  The  youngest 
child,  watching  the  movement,  whispered,  with  a  re- 
proachful look, — 

"  Granny  !  you  said  I  should  have  two  pieces  to  night, 
'cause  there  was  no  dinner." 

"  Hush,  Richard !"  said  the  little  sister,  folding  her 
arms  around  his  neck. 

The  returning  wanderer  with  difficulty  maintained  his 
disguise,  as  he  marked  the  deep  wrinkles  on  that  brow, 
which  he  had  left  so  comely. 

"  Have  you  only  this  broken  loaf,  my  good  woman  ?  I 
fear  the  portion  I  have  taken,  will  not  leave  enough  for 
you  and  these  little  ones." 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  69 


"  We  shall  have  more  to-morrow,  sir,  if  God  will.  It 
was  not  always  thus  with  us.  When  my  dear  daughter 
and  her  husband  were  alive,  there  was  always  a  suffi- 
ciency for  the  children,  and  for  me.  But  they  are  both 
dead,  sir ;  the  father,  last  year,  and  she,  when  that  boy 
was  born." 

"  Had  you  no  other  children  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  One,  a  son,  a  dear  and  most  beautiful  boy. 
Long  years  have  passed,  since  he  went  away.  Whether 
he  is  in  the  land  of  the  living,  God  only  knows." 

Her  suppressed  sob  was  changed  to  surprise  and  re- 
sistance, as  the  stranger  would  fain  have  folded  her  in  his 
arms.  Then,  kneeling  at  her  feet,  and  holding  her  thin 
hands  in  his,  he  said, — 

"  Mother  !  dear  mother  !  can  you  forgive  me  all  ?" 

There  was  no  reply.  The  sunken  eyes  strained  wide 
open,  and  fixed.  Color  fled  from  the  lips.  He  carried 
her  to  the  poor,  low  bed,  and  threw  water  upon  her  tem- 
ples. He  chafed  the  rigid  hands,  and  in  vain  sought  for 
some  restorative  to  administer. 

"  Wretch  that  I  am  !     Have  I  indeed  killed  her  ?" 

And  then  the  shrieks  of  the  children  grew  shrill  and 
deafening, — 

"  The  strange  man  has  killed  grandmother  !" 

But  the  trance  was  brief.  Light  came  to  the  eye,  and 
joy  to  the  heart,  known  only  to  that  of  the  mother  who, 
having  sown  in  tears,  beholds  suddenly  the  blessed,  un- 
expected harvest. 


70  THE     WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

"  Do  I  live  to  see  thy  face  ?  Let  me  hear  thy  dear 
voice  once  more,  my  son." 

But  the  son  had  vanished.  At  his  return  came  sup- 
plies, such  as  that  poor,  half-subterranean  apartment 
had  never  before  witnessed ;  and  ere  long,  with  those 
half-famished  children,  they  partook  of  a  repast,  whose 
rich  elements  of  enjoyment  have  seldom  been  surpassed 
on  this  troubled  earth. 

"  What  a  good,  strange  man !"  said  the  satisfied  boy. 

"We  must  not  call  him  the  strange  man  any  more, 
but  our  uncle,"  said  little  Margaret ;  "  so  he  told  me 
himself." 

"  Why  must  we  say  so  ?" 

"  Because  he  was  dear  mother's  dear  brother,  just  as 
you  are  mine.  Did  not  you  see  that  he  cried,  when 
grandmother  told  him  she  was  dead  ?" 

"  Well,  I  shall  love  him  for  that,  and  for  the  good 
supper  he  gave  us." 

"  Have  you  here  my  father's  large  Bible  ?"  asked  the 
son  of  the  widow.  She  brought  it  forth  from  its  sacred 
depositary,  carefully  wrapped  in  a  towel.  Tears  of  rap- 
turous gratitude  chased  each  other  along  the  furrows, 
which  bitter  and  burning  ones  had  made  so  deep,  as  she 
heard  him,  with  slow  and  solemn  utterance,  read  that 
self-abasing  melody  of  the  Psalmist :  "  Have  mercy  upon 
me,  O  God,  according  to  thy  loving-kindness ;  according 
to  the  multitude  of  thy  mercies,  blot  out  my  transgres- 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  71 

This  was  the  Psalm,  that  during  his  brokenness  of 
spirit,  on  the  deep  waters,  had  been  his  comforter ;  and 
now  he  seemed  to  breathe  into  its  eloquent  words,  the 
soul  of  penitence  and  devotion.  At  its  close,  he  kneeled 
and  poured  out  a  fervent  prayer  to  the  God  of  their  sal- 
vation ;  and  the  sleep  which  fell  that  night  upon  all  the 
habitants  of  that  lowly  abode,  was  sweet  as  an  angel's 
smile. 

The  daily  efforts  of  Richard  Jones,  for  the  comfort  of 
his  mother,  were  beautiful.  Her  unspoken  wishes  were 
studied  with  a  zeal,  which  feels  it  can  never  either  fully 
repay,  or  atone.  For  her  sake,  and  for  that  of  the  little 
orphans  intrusted  to  their  care,  he  rejoiced  at  the  gains, 
which,  through  the  friendship  of  the  supercargo,  he  had 
been  enabled  to  acquire  in  a  foreign  clime,  and  which  to 
their  moderated  desires  were  comparative  wealth. 

But  amid  the  prosperity  which  had  been  granted  him, 
he  still  turned  with  humility  to  the  memorials  of  his 
wasted  years.  In  his  conversations  with  his  mother,  he 
frankly  narrated  his  sins ;  and  while  he  went  down  into 
the  dark  depths  whither  intemperance  had  led  him,  she 
shuddered,  and  was  silent.  Yet,  when  he  spoke  of  the 
benefactor  who  had  found  him  in  the  streets,  ready  to 
become  a  self-murderer,  she  raised  her  clasped  hands, 
and  with  strong  emotion  besought  blessings  on  him  who 
had  "  saved  a  soul  from  death."  They  felt  that  it  is  not 
the  highest  and  holiest  compassion  to  relieve  the  body's 
ills  ;  but  to  rescue  and  bind  up  the  poor  heart  that  hath 


72  THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

wounded  itself,  and  which  the  world  hath  cast  out,  to  be 
trodden  down  in  its  unpurged  guilt. 

He  was  not  long  in  discovering  how  the  heart  of  his 
mother  yearned  after  that  former  home,  from  which 
poverty  had  driven  her.  On  inquiry,  he  found  that  it 
might  be  obtained,  having  been  recently  tenanted  by 
vagrant  people.  The  time  that  he  devoted  to  its  thor- 
ough repair  was  happily  spent.  Its  broken  casements 
were  replaced,  and  its  dingy  walls  whitened.  The  fences 
were  restored,  with  the  pretty  gate,  over  whose  arch  he 
promised  himself,  that  another  season  should  bring  the 
blossoming  vine  that  his  lost  sister  had  loved. 

He  sought  also,  in  various  places,  those  articles  of 
furniture  which  had.  been  disposed  of  through  necessity, 
and  which  he  had  valued  in  earlier  days.  Soon  the  old 
clock,  with  a  new  case,  merrily  ticked  in  the  corner,  and 
the  cushioned  arm-chair  again  stood  by  the  hearth- 
stone. Near  it  was  poor  Margaret's  work-table,  with  a 
freshly-polished  surface,  on  which  he  laid,  when  about 
to  take  possession,  the  large  family  Bible  bearing  his 
father's  name. 

Bright  and  happy  was  that  morning,  when  leaning  on 
his  arm,  the  children  walking  hand  in  hand  beside  them, 
neatly  apparelled,  the  widowed,  mother  approached  the 
home  endeared  by  tender  recollections,  and  whence,  poor 
and  desolate,  she  had  gone  forth.  As  she  paused  a  mo- 
ment at  the  door,  the  overflowing,  unutterable  emotion, 
was  gratitude  for  the  restored  virtue  of  the  being  most 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  73 


beloved  on  earth.  It  would  seem  that  congenial  thoughts 
occupied  him,  for  drawing  her  arm  more  tenderly  within 
his  own,  he  said :  "  Lo !  this  thy  son  was  dead,  and  is 
alive  again,  and  was  lost,  and  is  found." 


THE  ANTIDOTE. 

MAN  press'd  a  cluster  in  his  cup, 
The  grape,  with  ruby  glow, — 

How  high  its  sparkling  foam  leaped  up  ! 
But  ruin  lurked  below. 

A  direr  draught  a  demon  gave, 

With  fiercer  venom  fired, — 
The  tempted  drank  the  burning  wave, 

Till  reason's  light  expired 

The  weeping  skies  a  crystal  shed, 

As  pity's  tears  distil ; 
It  mantled  at  the  fountain's  head 

And  in  the  gushing  rill : 

It  bore  a  spell  to  heal  his  wound, 

His  fever-thirst  to  calm, — 
And  lured  him  with  a  silver  sound 

To  taste  its  trickling  balm. 

In  trembling  penitence  he  bowed, 
He  laved  the  leprous  stain, — 

And  those  pure  tear-drops  from  the  cloud 
Restored  his  health  again. 


THE  WATER-BEARER. 

I  SAW  a  child,  who  towards  his  cottage-home 

Two  water-buckets  bare.     The  winding  path 

Was  steep  and  rocky,  and  his  slender  arm 

Taxed  to  its  utmost  power.     Awhile  he  paused, 

Setting  his  burden  down,  just  where  the  way 

Grew  more  precipitous,  and  wiped  his  brow 

With  his  worn  sleeve,  and  breathed  refreshing  draughts 

Of  the  sweet  air,  while  still  the  summer  sun 

Flamed  o'er  his  forehead. 

Then,  another  boy, 

Who,  'neath  a  poplar,  in  a  neighboring  field, 
Sate  playing  with  his  dog  in  cool  repose, 
Uprising  from  that  grassy  nook,  came  forth, 
And  lent  a  ready  hand  to  aid  the  toil. 
So  on  they  went  together,  grasping  firm 
The  heavy  buckets  with  a  right  good  will, 
While  their  young  voices  blended,  clear  and  glad. 

And  as  the  bee  inhales  from  humblest  flower 
Sown  by  the  wayside,  honey  for  her  hive, — 
I  treasured  up  a  lesson  ;  and  when  eve 
Called  home  the  laboring  ox,  and  to  its  nest 
Warned  the  sweet  bird,  and  closed  the  lily's  cup, 


76  THE    WATER-BEARER. 


I  took  my  little  son  upon  my  knee, 
And  told  him  of  the  water-bearer's  toil, 
And  of  the  friendly  helper. 

When  his  eye 

Grew  large,  and  bright,  and  strongly  fixed  on  mine, 
Taking  the  story  to  his  inmost  thought, 
I  said, — "  Drink  thou  the  water  from  the  spring, 
That  God  hath  made,  and  not  the  fiery  cup 
Of  evil  men,  that  burns  the  shrinking  soul. 
My  gentle  child,  be  pitiful  to  all, 
For  in  thy  heart  are  seeds  of  sympathy, 
Whose  buds  are  virtues  and  their  fruit  for  heaven. 
And  when  thou  art  a  man,  my  blessed  one, 
Keep  thy  fresh  spirit  open  to  the  woes 
Of  foreigner  and  stranger,  of  the  race 
Darken'd  by  Afric's  sun,  or  those  sad  tribes 
The  red-brow'd  people  of  the  wilderness, 
Lone  exiles  from  those  streams  and  forest-glades 
That  erst  they  call'd  their  own. 

With  ready  hand 
Help  whosoe'er  thou  canst. 

So,  mayst  thou  find 

Succor  and  love,  in  thine  own  hour  of  need, 
If  on  thy  heart,  as  on  a  signet-ring, 
Is  grav'd  that  precept  from  a  Rock  divine, 
'  Bear  one  another's  burdens,  and  fulfil 
The  law  of  Christ.'  " 


DRINKING  SONG. 

DRINK,  friends,  the  parting  hour  draws  nigh, 

Drink,  and  forget  your  care  ; 
The  sultry  summer  noon  is  high, 

Drink,  and  your  strength  repair. 

Spare  not,  there's  plenty,  take  your  fill, 

We  have  a  vineyard  proud, — 
A  reservoir  on  vale  and  hill, 

A  fountain  in  the  cloud. 

Our  flowing  howl  is  large,  you  see, 

Lift  high  the  song  of  cheer ; 
Our  hearts  are  warm,  our  hands  are  free, 

Drink  deep,  and  never  fear. 

Our  father  Sun,  the  example  gives, 

Our  mother  Earth,  also, — 
He  drinketh  sly,  above  the  sky, 

She  jocund  drinks  below. 

Pledge,  friends,  pledge  deep  before  we  part, 

To  absent  wife,  or  daughter, 
Or  bright-eyed  maid,  who  rules  your  heart, — 

Drink  deep,  but  only  water. 


THE  PATRIARCH. 


"  This  earth  doth  yield 

More  than  enough, — that  temperance  may  be  tried."1 
MILTON. 


IN  the  days  of  old,  there  dwelt  a  Patriarch  toward  the 
rising  sun,  among  the  mountains  of  Asia.  Many,  and 
sore  troubles  had  he  seen,  and  stood  faithful,  when  all 
around  him  fell,  and  were  punished. 

He  was  a  tiller  of  the  earth,  and  when  it  had  brought 
forth  its  fruits,  he  with  his  wife  and  children  fed  thereon, 
and  blessed  the  Lord. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  after  he  had  cast  in  his  seeds, 
and  the  rain  had  watered  them,  and  they  put  forth  abun- 
dantly, each  after  his  kind,  that  there  came  up  a  plant 
exceeding  fair,  and  of  a  very  tender  green. 

And  as  he  visited  it  in  the  morning,  when  the  dews 
had  hung  a  pearl  upon  the  point  of  every  young  leaf,  lo  ! 
it  lifted  up  tendrils,  like  the  hands  of  a  little  child,  that 
reacheth  and  gropeth  after  some  pleasant  thing. 

Then  he  set  a  prop  near  it,  and  guided  thereunto  the 
wandering  shoots,  for  he  said,  "  Peradventure  its  heart  is 
weak,  and  it  needeth  that  some  one  should  train  it  in  the 
right  way." 


THE    PATRIARCH.  79 


So  it  grew  and  became  a  vine,  and  stretched  out  inter- 
lacing boughs,  making  a  goodly  shadow. 

And  as  he  diligently  regarded  it,  there  appeared  clus- 
ters of  fair  grapes,  hiding  among  the  branches.  Then 
the  master  of  the  vine  smelled  a  sweet  savor,  and  called 
together  his  household,  and  they  marvelled  at  its  beauty. 
Deeper  and  deeper  these  clusters  blushed,  as  the  sun 
looked  upon  them,  and  when  they  were  fully  ripe,  rich 
moisture  trickled  from  their  bursting  pores,  and  fell  upon 
the  ground. 

When  the  Patriarch  pressed  some  of  them,  the  sweet 
blood  flowed  freely,  and  fermented,  and  he  drank  thereof. 
But,  behold !  his  wisdom  departed  from  him,  and  he  lay 
uncovered  within  his  tent. 

Then  were  his  children  affrighted,  and  spake  one  to 
another,  not  knowing  what  these  things  should  mean. 
And  the  youngest  son  mocked,  and  derided,  saying, 
"  Lo !  he  who  reproveth  our  folly,  hath  himself  become 
altogether  vain.  Doth  it  not  behoove  him  who  warneth 
others,  that  he  take  heed  unto  his  own  ways  ?" 

Then  his  elder  brethren  answered,  "  Hold  thy  peace ! 
He  that  revileth  his  father,  God  shall  judge." 

So  they  took  a  garment,  and  reverently  covered  the 
Patriarch,  walking  backwards,  that  they  might  not  look 
upon  his  frailty. 

And  they  sate  down  mournfully  near  the  door  of  the 
tent,  and  the  two  elder  brethren  communed  together, 
saying,— 


80  THE    PATRIARCH. 


"  How  great  was  our  father !  and  how  was  he  hon- 
ored of  God,  inasmuch  as  he  hid  not  from  him,  the 
flood  that  was  to  drown  the  whole  earth." 

"When  all  flesh  had  corrupted  itself,  he  alone  was 
found  pleasing  to  his  Maker,  and  with  eloquent  words 
did  he  patiently  warn  a  world  that  was  filled  with  vio- 
lence." 

"  Yea !  and  through  his  faith  were  we  saved,  when  the 
fountains  of  the  great  deep  were  broken  up,  for  he  alone 
found  grace  to  guide  the  lonely  ark  over  the  billows, 
where  slept  the  world  of  the  ungodly." 

"  To  him  alone  did  the  dove  bring  the  first  green  to- 
ken from  the  abating  waters ;  when  all  who  had  escaped 
the  deluge,  came  forth,  as  from  a  prison,  upon  this 
Ararat." 

"  But  now,  because  he  hath  drank  of  the  fruit  of  the 
vine,  behold !  he  lieth  sick  and  powerless,  as  the  babe 
that  is  newly  born.  Who  knoweth  whether  he  is  not 
now  to  die  ?" 

And  they  lifted  up  their  voices  and  wept. 

Then  were  their  hearts  comforted :  as  though  some 
good  angel  breathed  upon  them,  "  Lo  !  the  Patriarch 
shall  not  die.  The  glory  of  his  reason  shall  return  unto 
him,  and  he  will  repent  himself,  and  as  the  bow  enlight- 
eneth  the  cloud,  so  shall  his  righteousness  be  renewed." 

And  it  came  to  pass,  that  when  he  awoke  from  his 
trance,  he  called  for  his  elder  sons,  and  blessed  them. 


THE    PATRIARCH.  81 


But  he  uttered  a  malediction  on  him,  who  had  mocked 
at  his  father  in  the  hour  of  his  adversity  and  shame. 

Thus  knew  the  Patriarch  the  evil  that  dwelt  in  the 
vine,  which  his  own  hands  had  reared.  He  learned,  in 
bitterness  and  scorn,  what  was  taught  us  from  the  be- 
ginning, of  the  curse  that  lay  hidden  in  the  cluster  which 
doth  seem  so  fair. 

Moreover,  a  Holy  Book  that  his  eyes  had  never  looked 
upon,  doth  instruct  us,  saying,  "  Look  not  upon  the  wine 
when  it  is  red,  when  it  giveth  its  color  in  the  cup,  when 
it  moveth  itself  aright ;  for  at  the  last,  it  biteth  like  a 
serpent,  and  stingeth  like  an  adder." 


THE  VINE. 

THE  vine  hath  beauty  rare, 

We  train  its  tender  shoot, 
We  twine  it  round  the  trellis  fair, 

And  praise  its  fragrant  fruit, — 
Yet  there's  a  secret  vein 

Of  poison  near  its  bower, 
And  he  will  find  it  to  his  pain 

Who  tampers  with  its  power. 

So,  from  life's  earliest  morn, 

While  we  like  shadows  pass, 
Beneath  the  rose-cup  lurks  the  thorn, 

The  adder  in  the  grass, — 
Be  ours  the  lore  of  Heaven, 

Clear  mind  and  cloudless  view, 
To  share  the  Eden  it  hath  given, 

And  shun  the  serpent  too. 


MOSES  IN  MIDIAN. 

WHY  art  thou  here,  amid  the  streams  and  flocks, 
Oh,  foster-son  of  Egypt !  rear'd  in  all 
The  luxury  of  courts  ?     Is  there  no  nerve 
Of  strong  ambition  in  thy  secret  soul  ? 
Didst  never  think,  'twere  sweet  to  be  a  king  ? 
Or  that  her  love  who  drew  thee  from  the  Nile, 
Fill'd  with  compassion  for  the  babe  that  wept, 
Might  to  her  other  bounties  add  a  crown  ? 

But  yet  thou  seem'st  content  with  rural  charms, 
Nor  wears  thy  brow  a  trace  of  wrinkling  care 
Or  rootless  expectation.     Thy  young  heart's 
Requited  love,  and  the  free  intercourse 
With  Nature  in  her  solitude  and  peace, 
Her  fringed  fountains  and  heaven-haunted  dells, 
Give  thee  full  solace. 

And  when  twilight  gray 
Leadeth  thy  lambs  to  fold,  or  trembling  stars 
Look  from  their  chambers  on  the  sleeping  founts 
With  tender  eye,  perchance  thy  hand  doth  strike 
The  solitary  lyre,  or  weave  in  dyes 
Of  sable  and  of  gold,  his  wondrous  fate 


84  MOSES    IN    MIDIAN. 

Who  drank  so  deep  of  sorrow  and  of  joy, — 
The  man  of  Uz. 

For  Poesy  doth  dwell 
With  pastoral  musing,  and  the  tuneful  lore 
Of  birds  and  brooks.     And  who  feeleth  that 
^Eolian  harp  within  him,  hath  no  need 
Of  the  inspiring  wine-cup,  or  the  gong 
Of  the  great,  pompous  world. 

Spake  not  the  voice 

Of  Midian's  gushing  waters  to  thine  ear, 
Prelusive  of  the  honors  and  the  toils 
Awaiting  thee  ?     Came  there  no  darkened  dream 
Of  desert  wanderings  ?  of  a  manna-fed 
And  murmuring  host  ?  of  thine  own  burdened  heart 
Bearing  alone,  the  cumbrance  and  the  strife 
Of  mutinous  spirits,  when  the  wrath  of  God 
Burned  fierce  among  them,  and  avenging  Earth 
Opening  her  mouth,  prepared  their  living  tomb  ? 

Oh  !  linger  still,  amid  the  groves  and  streams, 

And  to  green  pastures,  fed  by  gladsome  rills, 

Lead  on  with  gentle  crook  thy  docile  sheep, 

While  yet  thou  may'st.     With  holy  Nature  make 

Close  fellowship,  and  woo  the  still,  small  voice 

Of  inspiration,  to  thy  secret  soul, 

In  lonely  thought.     So  shall  it  gather  strength 

To  do  the  bidding  of  Omnipotence, 

And  walk  on  Sinai,  face  to  face,  with  God. 


THE  TWO  DRAUGHTS. 

THERE'S  a  draught  that  causeth  sadness, 
Though  of  mirth  it  seems  the  friend  ; 

To  the  brain  it  mounts  in  madness, 
And  in  misery  hath  its  end. 

To  the  household  hearth  it  creepeth, 
And  the  fire  in  winter  dies  ; 

There  a  lonely  woman  weepeth, 
While  the  famished  infant  cries. 

Bloated  form  and  brow  it  bringeth, 
Limbs  that  totter  to  and  fro, 

And  at  last,  like  scorpion,  stingeth 
To  an  agony  of  woe. 

Round  the  victim's  feet  it  weaveth 
Snares,  that  blind  his  eyes  in  gloom ; 

Sin  it  sows,  and  shame  receiveth, 
Frowns  of  hate,  and  deeds  of  doom. 

Bitter  words  of  strife  it  teacheth, 
Striketh  kind  affections  dead ; 


86  THE    TWO    DRAUGHTS. 

Even  beyond  the  grave  it  reacheth, 
To  the  judgment  bar  of  dread. 

Hath  not  life  enough  of  sorrow, 
Sickness,  mourning,  and  decay, 

That  we  needs  must  madly  borrow 
Thorns  to  strew  its  shortening  way  ? 

There's  a  draught  that  heaven  distilleth, 
Pure  as  crystal,  from  the  skies  ; 

Freely,  whosoever  willeth, 
May  partake  it,  and  be  wise. 


LOUISA  WILSON. 


"  Was  I  not,  that  hour, 
The  lady  of  his  heart  7-princess  of  life  1— 
Mistress  of  feast  and  favor  ?— Conld  I  touch 
A  rose  with  my  white  hand,  but  it  became 
Fairer  at  once  ? 

And  is  it  not  my  shame 
To  have  caus'd  such  woe  myself,  from  all  that  joy  7" 

Miss  BARRETT. 


"WHAT!  still  a  prisoner  to  this  odious  influenza?" 
said  a  bright  belle,  as  she  gayly  glided  into  the  chamber 
of  her  friend. 

"  Not  exactly  ill,  Julia  ;  but  then  such  a  hideous  swol- 
len face,  as  you  see,  makes  it  quite  impossible  to  appear. 
I  think  my  nose  has  grown  large,  too  ;  don't  you  ?  And 
this  chill,  cheerless  November  weather,  makes  it  no  great 
trial  to  keep  house." 

"  Oh  !  but  you  might  have  put  on  a  thick,  green  veil, 
and  wrapped  yourself  up  in  furs,  just  to  have  gone  to 
church,  and  seen  the  wedding  of  Frederick  Wilson  and 
Louisa." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  It  is  only  a  few  days  since  I  heard 
of  the  return  of  Frederick  Wilson,  from  Europe.  What 
a  march  they  have  stolen !" 


88  LOUISA    WILSON. 


"  Not  much  of  a  stolen  march,  dear  Emma.  They 
have  been  engaged  full  three  years.  Indeed,  so  long  did 
he  stay  on  his  travels,  that  many  thought  the  marriage 
would  never  take  place  at  all." 

"  Come  now,  lay  aside  your  muff,  and  mantilla,  and  be 
the  good  Samaritan,  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Yes, 
please !  What  was  the  possible  need  of  their  being  in 
such  a  remarkable  hurry  ?" 

"  I  believe  it  was  understood  that  the  event  would  take 
place  immediately  after  his  arrival ;  and  they  wished  to 
be  established  in  their  city-home  before  the  winter." 

"  Well,  they  might  at  least  have  given  information  of 
the  hour  of  their  nuptials,  to  some  of  their  old  acquaint- 
ance. Though,  I  presume,  a  little  mystery  gives  a  won- 
derful zest  to  matrimony." 

"  Their  plan  was  to  leave  for  their  journey,  in  the 
morning  cars ;  and  by  appointing  the  ceremony  at  an 
early  hour,  they  hoped  to  avoid  a  dense  crowd,  and  so 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone." 

"  Expert  archers,  without  a  doubt. — Did  Louisa  look 
well  ?" 

"  Beautifully,  as  you  know  brides  always  do.  She 
wore  a  fair  muslin,  fine  as  a  thought,  and  white  as  the 
driven  snow.  It  was  fitted  perfectly  to  her  graceful 
form,  and  her  neck,  and  delicately  rounded  arms,  were 
like  alabaster.  Her  flowing,  bridal  veil,  was  confined 
above  her  sunny  curls  with  pure  jasmine  and  the  orange- 
flower.  She  wore  no  other  ornament." 


LOUISA    WILSON.  89 


"Why,  who  would  have  expected  such  remarkable 
plainness  from  her  ?  Has  she  turned  Quaker  ?" 

"  No.  It  was  the  taste  of  the  bridegroom,  who  is,  I 
suppose,  a  trifle  more  infallible  than  ever,  from  having 
visited  so  many  of  the  European  courts." 

"  I  should  think  he  would  have  become  so  accustomed 
to  splendor  and  elegance  abroad,  as  to  require  it  the 
more  at  home." 

"  They  say  it  has  rather  led  him  to  admire  simplicity. 
At  any  rate,  Louisa  never  looked  so  well  in  her  life,  with 
those  downcast  eyes,  their  long  fringes  resting  on  her 
glowing  cheek,  and  that  sweet  air  of  dependence*  on  him, 
which  is  so  winning.  I  understand  he  has  brought  her 
the  most  magnificent  things  ;  sets  of  pearl,  and  diamonds, 
and  so  forth,  which  will  be  worn  at  the  parties,  in  the 
high  circles  where  they  are  to  move." 

"  I  wonder  if  the  old  aunt  who  brought  her  up,  will 
be  urged  to  make  her  appearance  there  ?" 

"  She  has  been  invited  to  take  her  residence  with  them, 
but  declines.  Her  age  makes  a  quiet  home  more  agree- 
able." 

"  Perhaps  Louisa  might  be  ashamed  of  aunty's  country 
manners,  among  her  new,  fashionable  friends." 

"  Oh,  Emma,  I  can  never  think  her  so  heartldss." 

"  Nor  I.  But  go  on  with  your  description  of  the 
wedding,  my  dear  creature.  And  pray,  disencumber 
yourself  of  those  immense  indian-rubbers,  and  take  the 


90  LOUISA    WILSON. 


other  velvet  rocking-chair.  There,  now  we  shall  be  so 
cozy." 

"  Fred  Wilson,  you  know,  was  always  a  jewel  of  a  man, 
so  high-bred,  so  refined.  He  is  still  more  polished  by 
foreign  travel,  which  his  wealth  gave  him  every  advan- 
tage of  making  both  improving,  and  extensive.  I  never 
thought  him  so  handsome  as  this  morning  ;  his  intellectual 
features  were  lighted  up  with  such  a  beaming  happiness, 
like  one  who  has  gained  a  priceless  treasure.  Then,  he 
responded  so  touchingly,  '  till  death  us  do  part !'  It 
was  both  solemn  and  beautiful.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  group  at  the  church-door,  while  he  was  throwing  her 
cashmere  round  her,  with  perfect  tenderness,  as  if  he 
feared  the  slightest  visiting  of  the  rude  air  for  his  pre- 
cious one.  Every  creature  pressed  forward,  to  get  a 
view  of  her,  as  she  stepped  into  her  coach,  and  there  was 
such  a  rush  that  I  was  glad  to  escape." 

"  I  never  thought,  for  my  part,  Louisa  more  beautiful 
than  several  others  of  our  acquaintance,  whom  I  could 
name." 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  then  she  is  exceedingly  graceful, 
and  shows,  in  all  she  says  and  does,  her  accomplished 
education.  Then,  you  know,  there  is  something  so  fasci- 
nating about  a  bride,  leaving  as  she  does  all  the  sacred 
spots  of  early  recollection, — the  play-places,  and  play- 
mates of  her  childhood,  the  hearth-stone,  where  she  was 
trained  and  sheltered  as  a  tender  blossom, — to  make  to 
herself  a  new  home,  to  trust  in  new  friends,  to  endure 


LOUISA    WILSON.  91 


new  trials,  supported  only  by  his  love  who  was  once  to 
her  as  a  stranger,  but  is  now  to  be  more  than  all  the 
world  besides :  there  is  in  this  something  sublime,  yet 
sad,  even  to  tears." 

"  Bless  me,  Julia,  you  are  right  eloquent.  Did  our 
good  clergyman  preach  a  sermon  on  the  occasion,  and 
you  take  notes,  for  the  benefit  and  behoof  of  all  spinsters  ? 
Was  there  a  crowd  at  this  pathetic  ceremony  ?" 

"Yes,  notwithstanding  it  was  at  the  early  hour  of 
eight.  Directly  in  front  of  me,  were  the  three  tall 
Misses  Astor,  through  whose  interstices  I  was  obliged  to 
gather,  by  skilful  dodging,  almost  all  that  I  saw  ;  for,  you 
know,  to  look  over  their  shoulders  would  be  impossible 
to  any  but  a  son  of  Anak.  They  had  made  their 
toilet  in  a  hurry,  and  could  not  wholly  conceal,  under 
their  smart,  new  hats,  their  hair  en  papillate.  Here  and 
there  was  a  heavy  sprinkling  of  ancient  maidens,  who,  I 
think,  had  left  breakfast  uneaten,  and  were  wanting  it. 
Even  the  fat,  red-faced  tavern-keeper  waddled  there,  and 
the  lame  lady  over  the  way ;  and  scores  of  boys  hung 
upon  the  columns  and  tops  of  pews  like  monkeys,  though 
the  sexton  did  all  in  his  power  to  keep  them  down. 
Everybody  looked  good-natured  and  animated.  Indeed, 
it  was  a  scene  altogether  worth  going  out  for,  this  raw 
morning.  I  am  sorry  you  should  have  made  choice  of 
such  a  time  to  wear  a  kerchief." 

"  You  are  so  kind,  Julia,  to  come  and  amuse  me  with 
your  nice  descriptions,  that  I  believe  I  have  lost  nothing. 


92  LOUISA    WILSON. 


Indeed,  I  may  have  a  clearer  idea  of  the  whole  than  if  I 
had  been  there  myself ;  for  your  perceptive  powers  are 
vastly  better  developed  than  mine.  I  declare,  I  feel 
quite  recovered  from  my  inapposite  illness,  by  your  enter- 
taining talk." 

Thus  renovated  and  cheered,  the  two  friends  started 
upon  a  little  tongue-race,  alternately  spurring  and  out- 
stripping each  other,  with  exuberant  fluency,  and  girlish 
spirits.  Louisa  passed  the  usual  anatomical  process, 
which  the  respective  positions  of  engagement  and  matri- 
mony involve.  Minute  points  were  scanned,  not  from 
censoriousness,  but  from  the  habit  of  analysis  common 
to  the  tact,  and  rapid  movement  of  the  female  mind. 
The  catalogue  of  faults  was,  however,  on  the  present 
citation  quite  moderate  ;  the  most  prominent  one  seeming 
to  be  a  sort  of  variation  of  mood  and  manner,  not  ex- 
actly amounting  to  caprice,  but  verging  at  times  towards 
the  extremes  of  sprightliness,  and  taciturnity.  Finally, 
with  the  good  feeling  common  to  their  happy  season. of 
life,  they  summed  up  the  whole,  with  a  preponderance 
of  agreeable  properties,  and  a  reiteration  of  their  full 
sense  of  her  good  fortune,  in  gaining  a  companion  and  an 
establishment  so  eligible ;  and  an  admission,  that  in  per- 
son and  education  she  was  qualified  to  be  an  ornament  to 
both.  This  bridal  gave  similar  materials  for.  delineation 
and  discussion  in  other  circles,  throughout  the  township, 
and  an  acceptable  subject  for  sundry  letters,  between  fair 
and  young  correspondents ;  after  which  it  gave  place  to 


LOUISA    WILSON.  93 


other  bubbles  on  the  wave  of  life,  and  fell  into  the  shadow 
of  things  that  were. 

In  the  meantime,  Frederick  Wilson,  and  his  young 
wife,  had  become  somewhat  domesticated  in  their  new 
home.  It  comprised  every  element  of  comfort,  with  the 
embellishments  of  taste.  Its  owner  found  a  new  impulse 
in  rendering  it  worthy  of  the  chosen  of  his  heart,  and 
was  but  too  happy  to  hear  her  praise  the  mansion  and 
grounds  of  which  he  had  made  her  the  mistress,  and  the 
works  of  art,  with  which  the  spacious  apartments  were 
decorated.  Nor  was  she  an  ungrateful  recipient  of  his 
tenderness  and  liberality  ;  but  repaid  them  with  the  ful- 
ness of  a  susceptible  heart,  glorying  in  its  first  love.  He 
viewed  her  as  the  "  purest  pearl  from  ocean's  deepest 
cell,"  and  she  turned  to  him  as  the  flower  to  the  sun, 
confiding,  and  constant.  Congeniality  of  taste  heightened 
the  pleasure  of  their  intercourse ; — the  same  book,  the 
same  picture,  the  same  music  delighted  them,  and  the 
claims  of  society  were  met,  and  discharged,  with  a  kin- 
dred satisfaction.  He  was  charmed  at  the  admiration 
which  her  courteous  manners  and  brilliant  conversation 
elicited,  and  she  took  pride  in  a  husband,  who,  to  every 
manly  accomplishment,  added  the  good  sense  of  prizing 
more  highly  his  own  native  land,  after  that  comparison 
with  others,  which  is  sometimes  so  perilous  to  patriotism. 
Matrimonial  life  opened  for  them  with  an  Eden  splendor, 
and  it  was  long  ere  any  shadow  darkened  amid  its 
bowers. 


94  LOUISA    WILSON. 


The  first  drawback  to  their  felicity,  was  a  species  of 
nonchalance  or  indifference,  not  on  the  part  of  the  hus- 
band, but  the  wife.  Expecting  a  warm  participation  in 
whatever  interested  him,  this  change  vexed  his  sensi- 
bility. He  recalled  every  minutiae  of  his  own  deportment, 
fearing  there  might  have  been  involuntary  remissness, 
and  redoubled  his  assiduity  to  discover  and  gratify  her 
wishes.  But  these  periods  of  abstractedness  or  stupor, 
which  originally  occurred  at  long  intervals,  grew  more 
frequent,  sometimes  alternating  with  a  mirth  apparently 
as  causeless,  and  equally  ungrateful.  He  became  appre- 
hensive that  her  nervous  system  was  unhinged,  and 
anxiously  summoned  medical  skill  to  her  aid. 

These  apparent  caprices  did  not  impair  warmth  of 
heart,  or  vivacity  of  intellect,  but  were  in  painful  contrast, 
as  the  cloud  with  the  sunbeam.  To  the  earnest  inquiries 
of  her  husband,  she  was  accustomed  to  speak  lightly, 
as  of  constitutional  headaches,  severe,  but  temporary. 
Exceedingly  did  he  dread  their  recurrence, — especially, 
when  the  glance  of  any  other  observer  was  added  to  his 
own ;  for  such  was  the  sensitive  nature  of  his  love,  that 
he  shrank  at  the  thought  that  the  slightest  reproach 
should  fall  upon  its  object,  and  hoarded  her  praises  as 
the  miser  his  gold. 

Thus  passed  away  the  first  year,  and  a  portion  of  the 
second  of  their  matrimonial  life.  Louisa  was  amiable  to 
all  around,  benevolent  to  the  poor,  and  devoted  to  the 
happiness  of  her  husband,  with  the  exception  of  the  varia- 


LOUISA    WILSON.  95 


tions  of  manner  which  have  been  mentioned.  These,  he 
could  not  but  apprehend,  had  a  different,  and  deeper 
source  than  the  physical  indispositions  under  which  they 
were  sheltered.  His  penetration  was  not  so  far  hood- 
winked as  to  mistake  the  fact,  that  they  were  in  some 
measure  dependent  on  volition.  His  continued  fear  was, 
that  the  same  misgiving  might  spring  up  in  the  mind  of 
others ;  and  he  spread  out,  as  it  were,  his  whole  being  to 
guard  her  from  suspicion,  until  the  effort  was  agony. 

At  length,  with  the  frankness  which  was  a  part  of  his 
nature,  and  the  tenderness  due  to  a  wife,  he  warned  her 
of  the  fault  to  which  he  believed  her  to  be  addicted,  and 
set  forth  its  inevitable  consequences,  with  feeling,  and 
emphasis.  Her  reply  was  a  reiterated  assurance,  that 
she  had  used  only  a  stimulating  medicine,  prescribed  by  a 
physician,  for  the  nervous  headaches  to  which,  from  early 
childhood,  she  had  been  subject ;  and  passed  into  such 
emotions  of  resentment,  and  passionate  grief,  that  he 
almost  shuddered  at  the  step  he  had  taken,  and  fervently 
hoped  that  his  suspicions  might  have  been  groundless. 

In  retirement,  Louisa's  conscience  keenly  smote  her. 
She  wept,  and  lay  upon  the  earth.  She  detested  herself 
for  her  duplicity,  and  determined  no  longer  to  wreck  the 
peace  of  the  husband  whom  she  loved.  She  resolved  to 
forsake  a  habit  on  which  she  could  not  reflect  without 
abhorrence,  and  mourned  that  she  had  not  possessed  suffi- 
cient moral  courage  to  acknowledge  it,  and  implore  his 
aid  in  its  extirpation. 


96  LOUISA    WILSON. 


The  eagle  eye  of  the  husband  detected  the  change  that 
ensued  with  unspeakable  gratitude.  Louisa  was  now  all 
that  he  could  desire.  Her  fine  mind  and  large  heart, 
seemed  enfranchised  from  a  hateful  bondage.  Whatever 
could  be  devised  for  her  happiness,  was  sedulously  ob- 
tained, and  her  unspoken  wishes  studied.  He  said, 
mentally,  "  How  can  I  ever  efface  from  her  affectionate 
heart  the  suffering  I  have  inflicted,  or  reward  her  for  the 
struggle  she  has  so  successfully  endured  ?"  and  he  literally 
overwhelmed  her  with  the  fulness  of  his  love.  She  too 
exulted  in  that  love,  and  in  being  worthy  of  it.  She  felt 
that  she  had  achieved  a  victory;  and  secretly  despised 
those  who,  being  in  like  manner  enslaved,  did  not  reso- 
lutely break  their  chains.- — But  let  him  that  thinketh  he 
standeth,  take  heed  ! 

Pleasant  would  it  be  to  linger  on  this  period  of  con- 
jugal felicity.  But  the  evil  habit,  of  which  we  have 
spoken,  is  like  the  "  strong  man  armed,"  and  though  Love 
may  wrestle  with  it,  till  the  break  of  day,  it  will  scarcely 
prevail,  unless  it  take  hold  of  the  strength  of  Omnipo- 
tence. 

Frederick  and  Louisa  both  enjoyed  refined  society, 
and  were  qualified  to  adorn  it.  From  the  earliest  date 
of  their  marriage  they  had  discharged  its  claims,  with  a 
disposition  both  to  receive  and  impart  happiness.  In 
those  fashionable  parties  which  require  elaborate  dress 
and  preparation,  their  position  obliged  them  sometimes 
to  mingle,  and  their  reception  was  always  flattering.  But 


LOUISA    WILSON.  97 


their  principal  social  delight,  was  to  surround  their  table 
with  a  few  chosen  friends,  where  the  flow  of  soul  was 
not  impeded  by  the  ice  of  ceremony.  These  pleasant 
gatherings  had  been  gradually  laid  aside,  during  the 
domination  of  Louisa's  tyrant  foe.  For  though  she  had 
always  maintained  sufficient  caution  to  appear  well  on 
public,  and  formal  occasions,  it  was  sometimes  the  reverse 
in  those  visits  which  involved  less  restraint.  She  more 
slightly  armed  herself,  where  the  inspection  was  more 
concentrated  and  critical. 

Sometimes,  Frederick  had  been  compelled  to  meet 
their  invited  guests,  with  the  excuse  of  her  having  an 
excruciating  headache ;  and  though  he  loathed  to  lend 
his  aid  to  what  he  deemed  deception,  and  felt  like  a 
divided  being,  while  discharging  alone  the  requisitions  of 
hospitality,  still  he  considered  it  a  duty  to  protect  the  rep- 
utation of  his  wife,  and  was  thankful  when  she  did  not, 
by  her  presence,  overthrow  it.  Now,  that  this  reign  of 
terror  was  over,  he  indulged  with  a  buoyant  heart  in  his 
favorite  social  entertainments;  while  his  fair,  kindred 
spirit,  presided  with  her  characteristic  elegance  and  grace. 

One  fine  morning  in  summer,  he  came  in,  remarking 
that  he  had  met  acquaintances  from  a  distant  city,  to 
whom  he  wished  to  show  attention ;  and  if  she  had  no 
other  engagement,  would  invite  them  to  a  quiet  cup  of 
tea,  with  a  few  of  their  neighbors  and  more  intimate 
friends.  She  concurred  with  an  affectionate  zeal  in  his 
plans,  and  arranged  on  the  mantel-pieces,  with  exquisite 


98  LOUISA    WILSON. 


taste,  a  variety  of  vases,  filled  with  rich  flowers  from 
their  garden  and  conservatory.  She  busied  herself  to 
see  that  everything  was  in  order,  and  proposed,  what 
she  knew  would  please  him,  to  pour  out  the  tea  with  her 
own  hand,  at  a  table  in  the  parlor  where  they  should 
assemble.  He  was  partial  to  this  mode,  from  the  principle 
of  dispensing  with  ceremony,  wherever  it  was  possible, 
and  also  from  early  recollection,  having  been  accustomed 
thus  to  see  his  mother  entertain  her  friends ;  and  knew 
that  on  Louisa's  part  this  was  a  submission  to  his  prefer- 
ence, which  he  did  not  fail  to  appreciate. 

Their  guests  arrived  at  an  early  hour,  and  were  admir- 
ing the  paintings  and  statuary  that  decorated  the  lofty 
apartments,  and  inhaling  the  balmy  air  through  the  long 
windows,  opening  upon  a  colonnade,  whose  pillars  were 
clasped  by  clustering  vines,  and  adorned  with  blossoming 
shrubbery.  Frederick  hastened  to  summon  Louisa,  and 
was  startled  to  find  her  not  only  in  dishabille,  but, — 
with  the  headache. 

He  begged  that  he  might  excuse  her,  and  advised,  by 
all  means,  that  she  should  remain  in  her  room.  But  she 
was  bent  on  descending,  and  by  a  strong  effort,  in  which 
she  excelled,  managed  to  welcome  her  visitants,  with 
tolerable  grace.  Yet  those  who  were  well  acquainted 
with  her,  could  not  fail  to  detect  in  her  sleepy  eyes,  and 
causeless  repetitions  in  discourse,  that  she  was  not  her- 
self. 

The  tea-equipage   was   brought  in.      And   now,  the 


LOUISA    WILSON.  99 


simple  mode  of  presenting  it,  which  he  had  accepted  as 
a  favor,  was  a  new  source  of  apprehension.  Seating  her- 
self at  the  table,  behind  her  splendid  service  of  silver,  she 
filled  the  cup  nearest  to  her,  and  continued  pouring,  pour- 
ing, pouring,  until  the  overflowing  tray  discharged  its  su- 
perfluous beverage  upon  the  rich  carpets.  The  agonized 
husband  affected  not  to  observe  it,  and  talked  with  his 
friends  rapidly,  and  at  random.  An  elderly  lady,  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  his  mother,  quietly  approaching,  begged 
to  relieve  her  of  the  office,  on  account  of  her  indisposi- 
tion. 

"  No,  no,  I  thank  you.  I  am  fond  of  pouring  out.  I 
am  quite  used  to  it,  I  assure  you." 

Frederick,  springing  to  her  side,  exclaimed, — 

"  1  hope  you  will  allow  Mrs.  Carlton  to  take  your 
place." 

"  I  have  myself,"  said  that  lady,  in  a  low,  soothing 
tone,  "  been  so  troubled  with  severe  nervous  headaches 
in  my  youth,  as  to  be  nearly  blind ;  and  quite  too  tremu- 
lous for  any  effort  like  this." 

"  But  I  have  no  headache  now, — no, — just  none  at  all. 
I  insist  on  helping  my  friends  to  refreshments,  myself. 
It  is  such  a  great, — a  very  great, — great, — pleasure,  in- 
deed." 

Frederick  led  her  unwillingly  to  a  sofa,  where  she  half 
reclined  against  one  of  its  pillows.  The  servant,  having 
his  tray  restored  to  order,  through  the  care  of  Mrs.  Carl- 
ton,  commenced  to  serve  the  company,  and  was  about 


100  LOUISA    WILSON. 


passing  her,  when  she  siezed  his  arm  with  a  sudden  sweep, 
calling  out, — 

"  Here,  bring  me  a  cup.  Why  do  you  pass  me  by  ? 
I'll  have  you  to  know,  that  I'm  your  mistress." 

Then  she  fell  into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter,  while 
her  husband,  pale,  and  in  torture,  half  persuading,  and 
half  compelling,  took  her  to  her  own  room.  At  his 
return  he  attempted  no  apology,  and  the  guests,  after  a 
few  ineffectual  efforts  to  converse  and  be  at  ease,  excused 
themselves,  and  departed. 

Mrs.  Carlton  lingered  awhile,  after  all  others  had  gone, 
and  motioning  towards  a  boudoir,  said  in  a  low,  gentle 
voice, — 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Wilson,  your  mother's  blood  is  in  my 
veins.  I  love  you,  and  I  love  your  wife.  Can  I  be  of 
use  to  either  of  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  at  least  I  do  not  see  how.  These  terrible 
headaches  are  destroying  her  nervous  system.  She  has 
had  them  from  early  youth.  I  have  applied  to  the  best 
physicians,  but  they  give  no  relief." 

"  Have  you  applied  to  the  Great  Physician  ? — Frede- 
rick Wilson,  I  admire  your  conjugal  tenderness  and  con- 
stancy. But  their  utmost  ingenuity  cannot  blind  others 
to  a  fault  so  palpable.  I  have  long  been  aware  of  it. 
Absolve  your  noble  mind  from  the  penance  of  this  vain 
disguise,  which  the  eye  of  even  the  commonest  servant 
can  penetrate." 


LOUISA    WILSON.  101 


"  Why  do  you  seek  to  draw  such  a  confession  from 
me?" 

"  That  I  may  soothe  the  anguish  that  is  eating  away 
your  existence,  and,  if  possible,  help  you  both." 

Pacing  the  room,  with  rapid  and  disordered  steps,  he 
at  length  paused  opposite  to  her,  repeating  half  uncon- 
sciously,— 

"  Help  us !  help  us !    How  can  that  be  ?" 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  and  drawing  him  to  a  seat 
by  her  side,  said  with  maternal  kindness, — 

"  Can  you  feel  willing  to  confide  in  me  so  far  as  to  say 
whether  you  have  ever  spoken  to  Louisa  of  her  destructive 
habit?" 

"  I  have." 

"  Freely,  and  firmly,  as  a  husband  should  ?" 

"Freely,  and  firmly — oh,  yes.  And  she  seemed  to 
have  reformed.  It  is  now  a  long, — long  time  since  aught 
of  this  kind  has  occurred.  I  thought  she  was  my  own 
blessed  angel  again.  Oh,  my  God  !" 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  but  through  his 
convulsed  fingers  the  oozing  tears  found  their  way.  The 
sympathizing  friend  waited  till  the  emotion  had  subsided, 
and  he  exclaimed, — 

"  If  you  can  do  anything  for  us,  do  it,  in  Heaven's 
name !" 

"  My  dear  Frederick,  my  heart  bleeds  for  you.  I  am 
old,  and  have  seen  something  of  the  world.  I  know  how 
hard  it  is  for  a  victim  to  escape  these  toils  of  the  tempter. 


102  LOUISA    WILSON. 


The  warmest  affections,  the  highest  talents,  the  most 
indomitable  pride,  have  been  set  in  array  against  them, 
and  fallen.  Believe  me,  you  are  not  the  person  to  man- 
age this  matter.  Will  you  leave  it  to  me  ?" 

"  You  have  my  everlasting  gratitude  for  this  heavenly 
benevolence.  I  put  myself  under  your  control." 

"  Then  I  shall  require  you  to  obey  implicitly.  I  know 
you  wish  to  visit  your  estates  in  a  distant  county.  Leave 
the  house  early  in  the  morning,  without  seeing  Louisa. 
I  will  remain  with  her,  and  watch  over  her  during  your 
absence.  My  lone  widowhood  will  enable  me  so  to  arrange 
my  family,  that  none  will  sustain  injury.  I  feel  this  effort 
to  save  her  to  be  all-important." 

"  But  how  will  you  explain  the  circumstance  of  my 
departure  ?" 

"  I  will  inform  her  that  you  have  left  on  business, 
grieved  to  the  heart,  by  her  perseverance  in  error.  If 
necessary,  I  will  even  suggest  that  your  return  may  de- 
pend on  her  conduct." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Carlton,  you  are  too  severe.  You 
will  drive  her  to  desperation." 

"  Have  you  not  seen  the  futility  of  temporizing  meas- 
ures ? — of  appeals  to  all  the  native  emotions,  and  forms  of 
tenderness?  I  repeat  to  you,  that  I  love  Louisa,  both 
for  your  sake  and  her  own.  My  feelings  have  been 
strongly  drawn  out  to  her,  from  some  personal  resemblance 
she  bears  to  the  last  darling  daughter,  whom  Heaven 
took  from  my  embrace  to  its  own.  I  promise  you  to  be 


LOUISA    WILSON.  103 


kind,  and  to  apprise  you  constantly  by  letter  of  our  pro- 
gress. Do  you  trust  to  me  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"  Entirely  ?" 

"  Without  reserve.     May  God  forever  bless  you." 

"  And  now,  my  son,  try  to  snatch  a  brief  rest.  May 
He,  who  alone  can  give  success  to  our  endeavors,  be  with 
us  both." 

The  bright  morning  rose  upon  the  departing  husband, 
and  the  faithful  friend  by  the  bedside  of  the  inebriate. 

Reason  returned  slowly,  and  then  she  was  advised  by 
Mrs.  Carlton  to  remain  quiet,  as  if  a  sufferer  from  acute 
disease.  She  took  care  that  proper  nourishment  was 
administered,  and  towards  evening  drawing  the  curtain, 
said,— 

"  How  are  you  now,  dear  Louisa  ?  You  know  you 
have  been  quite  ill,  and  I  am  here  to  see  to  your  com- 
fort." 

"  111 !     You  here  ! — Where  is  Frederick  ?" 

"  He  left  home  this  morning." 

"  Left !     My  husband  gone  ! — Where  ?" 

"  On  business,  among  his  distant  estates,  which  you 
know  he  has  long  wished  to  transact." 

"  Very  singular,  indeed.     When  is  he  to  return  ?" 

"There  is  some  uncertainty  about  it.  Perhaps  the 
time  may  depend  somewhat  upon  you." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?"  leaping  from  the  bed.  "  What 
sort  of  language  is  this  to  me  ?  I  am  sure  you  were 


104  LOUISA    WILSON. 


never  deputed  by  him  to  treat  me  in  this  remarkable 
manner." 

"Dear  Louisa,  you  have  many  accomplishments,  and 
virtues.  I  admire  them,  and  love  you.  But  I  am  con- 
strained to  say,  that  you  are  under  the  dominion  of  a 
fearful  habit,  that  wrecks  your  husband's  peace,  and  your 
own  reputation.  Strive  to  arouse  yourself." 

"  Arouse  myself  ?  Indeed  ! — that  I  will  do.  And  in 
the  first  place,  leave  me  directly  ;  or  I  will  inform  my 
husband  of  your  intrusion,  and  strange  behavior." 

"  I  am  here  by  his  permission.  What  I  say  to  you, 
has  his  sanction." 

"Either  you  are  false,  or  I  am  most  wretched." 

Pitying  her  distress,  Mrs.  Carlton  would  fain  have 
drawn  her  to  her  bosom. 

"  Let  me  be  your  comforter,  my  poor  child.  You  have 
never  known  a  mother's  care  from  your  infancy.  I  will 
be  your  mother.  I  will  aid  in  restoring  you  to  the 
respect  of  those  who  love  you,  and  to  your  own.  Confide 
in  me." 

But  she  repulsed  her,  exclaiming  that  her  husband  had 
deserted  her,  and  she  would  have  no  other  false  friend,  but 
desired  to  die.  Days  passed,  in  which  Mrs.  Carlton  was 
resolutely  shut  from  her  presence,  seeing  no  shadow  of 
success  to  her  experiment,  and  had  she  not  been  the  pos- 
sessor of  singular  perseverance,  would  have  despaired. 
She  remained  in  the  house  of  the  unhappy  woman,  regu- 
lating the  servants,  and  laboring  invisibly  for  her  welfare. 


LOUISA    WILSON.  105 


Notwithstanding  her  vigilance,  in  forbidding  the  access 
to  her  apartment  of  anything  that  could  intoxicate,  it  was 
evident  that  she  was  in  possession  of  some  secret  hoard 
by  which  she  was  kept  in  a  state  of  partial  stupefaction. 

Finding  all  appeals  to  her  understanding  and  affections 
alike  fruitless,  while  reason  was  thus  dethroned,  and  know- 
ing her  mind  to  be  much  under  the  influence  of  imagina- 
tion, she  conceived  a  design  of  calling  that  powerful 
element  to  her  aid. 

The  dusk  of  a  summer  twilight  deepened,  as  Louisa  re- 
clined upon  her  couch,  apparently  emerging  from  a  long, 
dream-like  reverie.  She  alternately  dozed  and  mused, 
until  the  darkness  of  night  gathered.  Partially  raising 
herself  to  ring  for  lights,  her  eye  was  arrested  by  a  circu- 
lar spot  of  ineffable  brightness  on  the  pannel  of  the  wall 
opposite  her  bed.  It  burst  forth  exactly  between  the 
portraits  of  her  father  and  mother, — trembled,  expanded, 
and  became  stationary.  In  its  centre  appeared  a  form, 
tall,  commanding,  and  wrapped  in  a  long,  dark  mantle. 
Its  features  were  stern,  and  the  glance  of  its  piercing 
eyes  seemed  the  reproof  of  a  spirit.  Then  a  long  bony 
finger  was  raised,  and  moved  with  a  warning  gesture  ; 
while  from  lips  that  seemed  immovable  came  forth  slow, 
solemn  intonations,  every  one  sinking  like  molten  lead 
into  her  soul : — 

"  Beware  ! — Beware  ! 
The  cup  looks  fair, 
But  its  dregs  are  woe,  and  care  : 
Ruin, — ruin, — and  despair." 

5* 


106  LOUISA    WILSON. 


Shuddering  she  closed  her  eyes,  pressing  her  hands 
tightly  over  them.  When  she  ventured  to  withdraw  the 
screen,  the  vision  had  departed.  She  rested  upon  her 
pillow  and  trembled. 

A  strain  of  dulcet  music,  strange  and  wild,  floated 
along.  A  gush  of  perfume  filled  the  room.  Again,  that 
circle  of  almost  ineffable  brightness.  It  overspread  the 
curtain  that  shaded  the  full-length  portrait  of  her  mother. 
From  its  centre  glided  a  female  form,  clad  in  flowing 
robes,  with  a  countenance  of  radiant  and  solemn  beauty. 
For  a  moment  it  seemed  inclined  to  hover  with  a  tremu- 
lous motion  ;  then  stood  still ;  and, 'as  if  the  dead  canvas 
had  awoke  to  life  and  sound,  uttered  slowly,  analyzing 
every  syllable, — 

"  Daughter ! — Repent !  and  do  the  first  works,  or 
else" 

Ere  those  deep,  impressive,  unearthly  tones  had  ceased, 
she  sprang  from  the  couch, — but  all  was  darkness.  She 
stretched  out  her  arms,  as  the  fair  being  faded, — 

"  Oh,  mother  !  Mother,  stay !  Hear  me  promise.  I  do 
repent.  I  will  try  to  do  the  first  works.  Blessed  mother, 
return  to  your  unworthy  child." 

Her  cry  of  terror  brought  Mrs.  Carlton  to  her  side, 
whose  neck  she  eagerly  clasped,  hiding  her  face,  with 
sobs,  in  her  bosom. 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear  friend  !  I  have  been  warned  by  un- 
earthly beings.  A  fair, — and  a  fearful  form.  One  was 
like  the  picture  of  that  mother  who  died  before  my  re- 


LOUISA    WILSON.  107 

membrance.  She  spoke  to  me  holy  words.  The  other 
was  so  stern !  His  voice  still  sounds  in  my  ears — 

'  Woe  and  care,  woe  and  care, 
Ruin,— ruin, — and  despair !' 

In  these  how  madly  have  I  plunged.  Who  will  save  me  ? 
Oh !  that  I  had  some  one  to  love  me." 

The  pitying  friend  soothed  her,  promising  to  be  a 
mother  and  a  guide.  She  now  passed  from  the  extreme 
of  aversion  to  that  of  childlike,  enthusiastic  attachment. 
Unreserved  confidence  followed — free  confessions,  and 
emphatic  resolutions  of  amendment. 

"  Alas,  dear  friend  !  this  fearful  habit  dates  from  early 
years,  when  wine  was  associated  with  hospitality  as  an 
element  of  happiness.  My  loneliness  as  an  orphan,  with- 
out brother  or  sister,  and  the  secluded  habits  of  the  aunt 
with  whom  I  resided,  made  me  exceedingly  delight  in 
those  few  social  and  festive  seasons  that  varied  the 
monotony  of  our  life.  In  these  entertainments  wine  was 
always  prominent.  I  heard  no  odium. attached  to  it,  and 
tasted  and  admired.  Thus,  even  in  childhood,  was  laid 
the  foundation  of  my  shame. 

"  The  long  three  years'  absence  of  the  lover  whom  I 
adored  were,  darkened  with  fears  lest  he  might  never  re- 
turn, or  at  least,  with  an  unchanged  heart.  In  these 
periods  of  depression  wine  was  my  comforter.  I  even 
ventured  to  tamper  with  the  fire  of  ardent  spirits.  Then 
I  first  learned  its  power  of  excitement  and  the  reaction 


108  LOUISA    WILSON. 


that  follows.  Whether  any  penetrated  my  secret,  I  know 
not ;  but  the  variation  of  manner  thus  caused,  my  young 
companions  designated  as  caprice  and  a  fitful  tempera- 
ment. 

"  With  this  sin  on  my  soul,  I  dared  to  enter  the  holy 
bands  of  wedlock ;  not  without  a  solemn  vow  to  forsake 
it,  and  innumerable  struggles  to  keep  that  vow.  How 
false  that  vow, — how  vain  those  struggles, — he  best  knows 
whom  most  I  love.  But  the  shame,  the  deception,  the 
misery,  the  self-loathing,  are  scanned  only  by  the  Eye  that 
readeth  the  spirit." 

Days  were  spent  in  salutary  conversations,  during 
which  the  venerable  lady  strove  to  impress,  the  absolute 
need  of  humility  before  God,  and  of  trusting  in  Him  for 
that  guidance  and  support,  without  which  "  nothing  is 
strong,  nothing  is  holy."  She  commiserated  but  did  not 
repress  those  searchings  of  heart,  without  whose  disci- 
pline she  felt  that  reformation  might  be  rootless.  Ear- 
nestly did  she  labor  to  impress  that  fear  of  the  Almighty, 
which  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom. 

"  She  spoke  of  sinners'  lost  estate, 
In  Christ  renevv'd,  regenerate, 

Of  God's  most  West  decree, 
That  not  a  single  soul  should  die, 
Which  turn'd  repentant  with  the  cry,— 

Be  merciful  to  me.' 

This  indefatigable  friend  held  daily  communications 
with  the  absent  and  anxious  husband,  respecting  every 


LOUISA    WILSON.  109 


stage  of  their  progress,  and  at  length  wrote,  with  a  hand 
tremulous  from  joy, — 

"  Dear  Frederick, — 

Louisa  is  worthy  of  you. — Return. 

E.  CARLTON." 

The  wings  of  the  wind  seemed  to  have  brought  the 
summoned  one.  The  meeting  is  not  a  subject  of  descrip- 
tion. It  can  be  imagined  only  by  those  who  know  the 
full  force  of  the  words, — repentant !  forgiven !  and  be- 
loved ! 

Mrs.  Carlton  returned  to  her  abode,  full  of  gratitude 
for  the  privilege  of  this  labor  of  friendship,  and  for  its 
blessed  results.  Ardent  attachment,  and  the  most  filial 
attentions  from  those  whom  she  had  thus  been  permitted 
to  serve  were  a  part  of  her  recompense,  and  brightened 
her  declining  years.  Scarcely  a  day  was  allowed  to  pass 
without  visit  or  message  to  the  loved  neighbor  and  bene- 
factress. 

One  evening,  while  a  chill  storm  was  raging  violently, 
Mr.  Wilson  entered. 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  had  not  expected  any  one  to  dare 
this  dark  conflict  of  the  elements  for  my  sake." 

"Did  you  suppose  we  could  allow  your  birthday  to 
pass  without  recognition  ?  I  assure  you,  I  had  hard  work 
to  keep  Louisa  from  accompanying  me,  notwithstanding 
the  tempest." 

Opening  a  basket,  he  produced  a  cap  and  collar,  ele- 


110  LOUISA    WILSON. 


gantly  wrought  by  her  hand,  and  a  magnificent  boquet, 
where  camellias  of  the  richest  hues,  and  the  mystic  pas- 
sion-flower with  its  waving  tendrils,  and  the  heliotrope 
and  tuberose  breathing  over  the  dahlias  a  cloud  of  per- 
fume, and  the  crimson  spire  of  the  sage,  and  the  white 
bosom  of  the  artemisia,  were  strongly  contrasted  with 
the  background  of  evergreen  on  which  they  reposed. 

"  Ah !  such  beautiful  tributes  of  art  and  nature  should 
be  for  the  fair  and  the  flourishing,  rather  than  for  those 
in  the  winter  of  their  days.  I  cannot  but  wonder  how 
dear  Louisa  should  thus  have  kept  in  mind  the  date  of 
my  birth." 

"  There  is  a  tablet  in  both  our  hearts,  running  thus : — 

1  Let  not  the  day  be  writ, 

Love  will  remember  it, 

Untold,  unsaid.'  " 

"  How  much  am  I  indebted  to  you  both,  for  the  unre- 
mitting kindness  that  cheers  the  evening  of  my  days." 

."Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Carlton,  you  have  no  imagination  of 
the  treasure  I  now  possess  in  her.  She  is  so  gentle,  so 
radiant  with  intellectual  life, — so  earnest  to  efface  the 
memory  of  the  past,  so  full  of  all  good  works,  that  I  can 
never  adequately  speak  her  praise,  or  my  happiness." 

"  Heaven  be  praised !  She  is  indeed  a  lovely,  talented 
being,  and  most  dear  to  us  both.  May  her  feet  ever 
stand  firm  upon  the  unfailing  Rock." 

"  Did  you  ever  perfectly  explain  to  me,  the  cause  of 


LOUISA    WILSON.  Ill 


that  sudden  transition  from  aversion  to  delight  in  your 
society,  which  occurred  during  my  painful  absence  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  may  need  your  pardon  for  the  course  pur- 
sued in  this  particular,  though  certainly  not  for  the 
motive  that  prompted  it.  Her  antipathy  to  me  was  so 
great,  and  the  stupor  in  which  she  lay  so  continued,  that 
I  was  ready  to  despair  of  gaining  an  opportunity  to  serve 
her.  I  cast  about  for  the  best  means  that  remained  to 
me,  and  not  without  misgiving,  made  a  selection.  None 
can  be  much  with  her,  and  not  perceive  that  imagination 
is  a  prominent  feature  in  her  mind ;  and  as  the  reasoning 
powers  were  almost  constantly  dormant,  I  seemed  driven 
to  make  an  appeal  to  that.  A  little  device  with  the 
magic  lantern,  which,  had  her  intellect  been  unclouded, 
she  would  have  detected  in  a  moment,  wrought  effects 
surpassing  my  anticipation.  It  gave  access  to  her  pres- 
ence, from  which  I  had  before  been  excluded,  and  pitying 
Heaven  did  the  rest." 

"  How  far  do  you  suppose  she  is  aware  of  the  measure 
to  which  you  resorted  ?" 

"  I  doubt  whether  she  has  more  than  a  dreamy  re- 
membrance of  the  scene.  Sometimes,  I  have  thought  I 
would  confess  the  whole  to  her  and  implore  her  forgive- 
ness. But  she  has  never  made  any  allusion  to  it,  and  I 
have  thought  it  better  to  fortify  her  virtue,  than  to  stir 
up  the  dregs  of  indistinct  and  harrowing  recollection. 
Possibly,  my  conscience  has  not  always  been  perfectly 
satisfied  to  have  thus  invoked  stratagem ;  but  the  case 


112  LOUISA    WILSON. 


was  a  peculiar  one,  requiring  peculiar  measures.  Forgive 
me,  if  I  have  erred  through  excess  of  zeal  to  arrest  the 
wanderer  and  save  the  lost." 

"  We  can  never  thank  you  as  we  ought,  for  all  you 
have  done  for  us." 

"  If  I  have  been  the  means  of  any  good,  thank  not 
me,  but  Him  from  whom  all  good  proceedeth.  But  the 
whole  of  this  life  is  a  warfare,  my  dear  young  friend,  and 
it  is  never  safe  to  lay  aside  that  fear  which  drives  us  to 
trust  in  Omnipotence." 

"  All  your  counsel  is  to  us  most  precious." 

"  You  are  both  to  me  as  children  ;  you  seem  to  stand 
in  the  places  of  those  whom  our  Father  has  taken  from 
my  house  and  heart,  to  whom  I  hasten.  Your  beautiful 
wife  is  truly  attractive,  highly  endowed,  and  full  of  love 
to  you ;  butr  in  this  our  state  of  discipline  and  danger, 
possibly  she  is  not  armed  with  that  strong  heart  which 
foils  temptation  by  perfect  trust  in  an  arm  Divine. 
Teach  her  to  expect  difficult  duty,  and  let  it  be  your  care 
to  gird  her  up  for  it  by  deepening  her  piety." 

"  I  feel  the  force  of  all  you  say,  our  blessed  mother, — 
so  we  speak  of  you  to  each  other.  Indulge  us  in  that 
sweet  appellation." 

Pressing  his  hand  between  both  of  hers,  she  added, 
solemnly  and  affectionately, — 

"  None  may  boast,  my  son,  the  seeds  of  evil  habit  are 
dead,  never  more  to  quicken.  Yet  is  there  something 
almost  converting  in  maternal  love,  that,  watching  over  a 


LOUISA    WILSON.  113 


helpless  being,  nourishing  and  guiding  an  heir  of  immor- 
tality, feels  its  own  infirmity,  its  own  inadequacy  to  the 
great  work,  and  pours  itself  out  in  utter  abandonment, 
seeking  refuge  where  only  it  can  be  found, — above.  .  I 
rejoice  that  at  length  such  hopes  are  hers, — are  yours  ; 
may  God  crown  and  render  them  effectual.  I  have  been 
led  to  say  more  than  I  intended,  for  advancing  age  warns 
me  that  this  birthday  may  be  my  last.  Should  it  so 
prove,  let  this  be  my  parting  charge  to  our  dear  one : — 
to  put  forth  all  her  energies,  to  guard  every  avenue  of 
danger,  to  resist  every  wile  of  the  tempter;  yet  not  to 
rely  on  any  earthly  helper,  but  cling  ever  closely  to  the 
Hand  that  was  pierced." 

Little  could  it  then  have  been  supposed,  while  there 
was  such  a  lingering  of  the  health  and  even  the  beauty 
of  early  years,  around  this  inestimable  friejid,  that  her 
parting  intimation  would  so  soon  be  verified.  Yet  ere 
"  another  moon  had  filled  its  horn,"  Frederick  Wilson, 
himself  deeply  mourning,  was  called  to  console  his 
weeping  wife,  who  bent  over  the  lifeless  form  of  one 
who  had  been  to  both  as  a  mother. 

"  She  has  gone  to  the  angels,"  he  said. 

"  To  the  angels,  husband,  in  whose  joy  even  on  earth 
she  partook,  over  the  sinner  that  repenteth." 

After  the  funeral  obsequies,  it  was  to  them  a  mourn- 
ful satisfaction  to  devise  and  erect  a  monument,  which 
should  consult  both  the  simplicity  of  her  taste  and  the 
impulse  of  their  gratitude.  The  green  turf  where  her 


114  LOUISA    WILSON. 


form  reposed  was  surrounded  by  a  beautiful  inclosure, 
and  planted  with  her  favorite  flowers.  At  its  entrance  a 
willow  swept  the  ground  with  its  long,  drooping  wands, 
and  over  the  arched  gate  crept  the  ivy,  and  the  clematis 
with  its  blue  pendulous  blossoms.  In  the  centre  rose  a 
plain  stone  of  the  purest  marble.  Its  only  inscription 
was  the  name,  with  the  simple  dates  of  birth  and  death  ; 
and  beneath,  cut  deeply  into  the  heart  of  the  stone, — 

®>one   fiome. 

On  the  reverse,  two  hands,  exquisitely  sculptured, 
sprang  from  the  marble,  sustaining  a  vase,  with  the 
words  "  Bring  flowers"  enwreathed  with  acanthus  leaves, 
while  its  frequent  supply  of  fresh  water  and  the  fairest 
flowers,  attested  the  constancy  with  which  the  memory 
of  the  dead  was  cherished. 

The  loss  of  the  hand  that  had  steadily  probed  her 
follies,  and  fostered  her  virtues,  was  sincerely  deplored 
by  Louisa.  Scarcely  had  the  sadness  in  some  measure 
passed  away,  ere  she  was  called  to  become  a  mother. 
When  she  saw  her  husband  press  long  and  earnestly  the 
velvet  lip  of  their  first-born,  and  dividing  between  it  and 
herself  his  tearful,  enraptured  blessings,  she  felt  more 
than  repaid  for  all  the  apprehension  and  agony  with 
which  a  Being  of  wisdom  hath  encompassed  the  entrance 
of  that  holy  relationship. 

The   ruling  desire  of  Frederick  Wilson's  heart  was 


LOUISA    WILSON.  115 


consummated  in  the  first  wail  of  that  feeble  infant.  Not 
only  had  his  native  love  of  children  led  him  to  repine 
that  their  union  for  years  had  been  thus  unblessed,  but 
he  had  secretly  depended  on  the  force  of  maternity  to 
dispel  the  only  shade  that  darkened  the  history  of  his 
wife.  Often  had  he  said  mentally,  while  conflicting 
with  her  depraved  habit,  "  Were  she  but  a  mother ! 
those  cares  and  joys  would  be  her  salvation." 

And  now  the  blessing  was  granted,  he  was  never 
weary  of  watching  the  tender  nursling  of  their  hopes, 
regarding  every  movement  of  the  tiny  limbs,  and  antici- 
pating the  volitions  of  a  mind  that  was  to  live  forever. 
It  gave  him  pleasure  to  believe  that  it  would  have  the 
mother's  eye  of  sparkling  blue,  and  to  trace  the  rudi- 
ments of  his  own  noble  forehead  amid  its  imperfectly 
developed  features.  It  was  interesting  to  see  him  so 
absorbed  by  this  new  affection.  He  was  peculiarly  grat- 
ified that  it  was  a  daughter,  that  its  companionship  with 
the  mother  might  be  more  entire  and  its  influence  more 
permanent.  He  hailed  it  as  the  little  angel  that  had 
stepped  into  the  troubled  pool,  to  heal  the  hearts  that 
waited  to  be  whole.  It  was  his  first  thought  at  waking, 
his  last  when  he  lay  down ;  and  it  even  had  part  in  his 
dreams,  tinging  them  with  the  hue  of  its  own  sweet  help- 
lessness. The  only  alloy  to  his  felicity  was  the  physical 
weakness  of  Louisa.  Some  infirmity  of  constitution  left 
her  longer  languid  and  a  prisoner  than  was  expected. 
Both  physician  and  nurse  recommended  the  free  use  of 


116  LOUISA    WILSON. 


tonics,  to  restore  her  decaying  appetite  and  strength. 
Tonics  involving  stimulants ! 

Did  they  not  understand  or  perceive  the  baleful  fires 
they  were  rekindling  ?  But  he  who  did  both  understand 
and  perceive,  interposed,  though  at  the  eleventh  hour. 
He  forbade  all  use  of  what  could  intoxicate,  or  its  entrance 
into  his  house. 

Louisa  was  astonished  at  the  spirit  which  he  had  man- 
ifested. She  felt  it  great  unkindness  to  withhold  what 
she  believed  she  needed,  as  a  restorative  to  health  and 
the  means  of  affording  nourishment  to  her  babe.  She 
became  silent  and  resentful,  and  was  unappeased  by  his 
anxious  inquiries  or  affectionate  treatment.  One  evening, 
while  she  supposed  him  to  be  absent  from  home,  she 
imagined  herself  to  be  alarmingly  feeble  and  in  danger  of 
syncope.  She  therefore  directed  the  nurse  to  go  forth 
silently,  and  purchase  some  of  the  prohibited  beverage, 
while,  propped  in  her  easy  chair,  she  lulled  the  infant  on 
her  bosom. 

"  Poor  innocent !"  she  murmured,  "  hard  that  thou 
must  pine  for  thy  natural  food,  and  thy  sick  mother 
suffer,  because  a  cruel  father  denies  the  medicine  that 
would  restore  us." 

Ere  the  return  of  the  nurse,  her  husband  entered. 
What  met  his  horror-struck  eyes  ? 

His  darling  child  in  the  fire,  and  the  mother  hanging 
over  the  arm  of  her  easy  chair — asleep  ! 

It  seems  that  after  the  departure  of  the  nurse  she  had 


LOUISA    WILSON.  117 

drawn  nearer  the  fire,  resting  her  feet  upon  the  fender. 
But  as  the  opium-trance  deepened,  they  had  slidden  from 
their  support,  and  the  precious  burden  from  her  arms. 
Fortunately,  the  wood  was  nearly  consumed,  and  being 
closely  wrapped  in  flannels,  its  clothes  had  not  ignited. 
One  fair  cheek  was  scorched  by  the  hearth  where  it  lay, 
but  a  hand  and  arm  which  it  had  thrust  forth  from  its 
envelope,  came  in  contact  with  red  coals  and  decaying 
brands,  and  was  burned  to  a  crisp. 

The  agony  of  the  father,  as  he  caught  the  child  to  his 
breast,  was  indescribable. 

"  Woman  !  See  your  own  work  ! — the  fruit  of  your 
accursed,  wilful  wickedness !" 

A  consultation  of  surgeons  pronounced  amputation 
above  the  elbow  indispensable  to  life,  and  it  was  done. 
The  sufferings  of  the  poor  babe,  and  the  hazardous  illness 
that  followed,  taught  the  bitterness  of  remorse  to  the 
wretched  mother.  Its  cries  of  anguish,  and  her  husband's 
stern  adjuration,  "  Woman  !  see  your  own  work  !"  haunted 
her  perpetually. 

It  was  long  ere  that  child  was  out  of  danger,  or  the 
offended  husband  propitiated.  But  as  health  returned 
to  its  pallid  brow,  he  began  to  look  on  the  wasted  form 
of  his  wife  with  commiseration.  His  heart  was  touched 
with  pity,  and  alive  to  tender  remembrance;  but  the 
respect  that  is  essential  to  true  love  had  fled  forever. 
This  she  perceived,  and  no  longer  desired  to  live.  The 
idea  that  he  despised  her  took  possession  of  her  imagina- 


118  LOUISA    WILSON. 


tion,  and  poisoned  the  springs  of  life.  The  love  that  had 
for  years  been  the  pole-star  of  her  existence  had  shrouded 
itself.  She  was  not  content  to  gather  up  the  scattered 
coals  from  its  forsaken  altar,  and  be  thankful  they  were 
not  wholly  extinguished ;  and  quicken  them  with  the 
breath  of  the  patient  heart,  and  pour  incense  upon  them 
that  might  have  ascended  to  heaven.  No ;  she  could 
be  satisfied  only  with  its  first  fervor,  and  that  could  re- 
turn no  more.  She  no  longer  put  forth  any  effort  10 
resist,  scarcely  to  disguise  her  infirmity.  She  desperately 
strove  to  drown  her  sorrow  in  the  blood  of  the  grape ;  to 
consume  it  in  the  fire  of  distilled  liquors ;  to  stagnate  it 
in  the  sleep  of  the  poppy.  Her  husband  ceased  to  oppose 
the  current  of  her  depraved  appetite.  This,  also,  appeared 
to  her  unkindness,  for  she  construed  it  into  indifference. 
Maternal  love,  in  her  nature,  seemed  an  element  of 
secondary  power.  It  had  fallen  on  an  ill-prepared,  per- 
verted soil.  It  had  come  up  like  a  plant  under  the  storm- 
cloud,  blighted  ere  it  could  take  deep  root.  The  lisping 
word  " mother" — that  talisman  of  all  tender  emotion, 
sometimes  awoke  a  thrilling,  delicious  tear,  but  that  lost 
arm  was  a  perpetual  reproof,  bringing  anew  the  sound 
of  those  terrible  words,  "  Woman  !  see  your  own  work  !" 
Short  and  sad  was  the  remaining  annal  of  her  days. 
One  morning  in  the  midst  of  her  lofty  parlor,  she  fell, 
and  rose  not.  She  was  borne  to  her  chamber  and  bed, 
where  she  breathed  heavily,  but  spoke  not.  Long  did 
her  coach,  which  she  had  ordered,  stand  in  waiting  at  her 


LOUISA    WILSON.  119 


gate  ;  for  none  of  those  who  had  hurried  in  and  out, — 
physicians,  neighbors  or  domestics,  remembered  to  say  to 
the  coachman, — "  The  mistress  is  dead  !" 

In  an  inner  room,  haggard  with  grief,  sat  the  disconso- 
late husband,  his  mutilated  child  upon  his  knee.  At  the 
deep  sound  of  the  funeral  bell,  he  put  the  little  one  from 
him,  that  he  might  kneel  for  the  last  time  amid  the  voice 
of  prayer,  by  her  side  whom  prayer  would  no  longer 
avail,  and  look  for  the  last  time  on  that  bloated,  discol- 
ored face,  once  so  beautiful. 

As  years  passed  on  it  was  touching  to  see  that  melan- 
choly man,  in  his  rich  saloon,  his  spacious  garden  or  his 
favorite  library,  ever  holding  by  her  only  hand  his  only 
child,  ever  breathing  into  her  ear  precepts  of  wisdom, 
ever  pouring,  as  it  were,  the  whole  wealth  of  a  sorrowing, 
loving  spirit  into  her  tender  bosom.  From  no  effort  of 
duty  or  work  of  benevolence  did  he  withdraw  himself, 
but  the  brightness  of  existence  was  gone  forever ;  and  in 
his  most  cheerful  moments,  he  was  as  one  who  had  seen 
the  idol  of  his  youth  borne  away  by  some  black-winged 
monster  into  outer  darkness. 


SCORN  NOT  THE  ERRING. 

SCORN  not  the  erring, — though  her  name 
Should  dregs  of  deep  abhorrence  stir  ; 

Even  though  the  kindling  blush  of  shame 
Burns  deep  on  Virtue's  cheek  for  her. 

Judge  not, — unless  thy  lip  can  tell 
What  wily  tempter,  tierce  and  strong, 

Did  the  unguarded  soul  propel 
To  ruin's  hidden  gulf  along. 

The  downward  road,  how  fearful  steep  ! 

The  upward  cliff,  how  hard  to  climb  ! — 
HE  only  knows,  whose  records  keep 

The  nameless,  countless  grades  of  crime. 

Scorn  not  the  erring, — thou  whose  heart, 
In  purpose  pure  is  garnered  strong  : — 

Claims  penitence  with  thee  no  part  ? 
Doth  pride  to  mortal  man  belong  ? 

For  by  thy  follies  unforgiven, 

Wert  thou  at  death's  dread  hour  accused, 
Even  thou  might  at  the  gate  of  heaven 

In  terror  knock, — and  be  refused. 


THE  TOMB  OF  CECILIA  METELLA. 

AT    ROME. 

Here  sleep'st  thou,  wife  of  Crassus  ? 

Thy  proud  tomb 

O'ermastereth  Time, — mocking  with  mighty  walls, 
And  Doric  frieze,  and  knots  of  sculptured  flowers, 
His  ill-dissembled  wrath. 

Soft,  drooping  shades, — 
The  dark,  columnar  cypress,  the  fair  leaves 
Of  the  young  olive,  and  the  ivy  wreath. 
Close  clustering,  lend  their  tracery  to  enrich 
Thy  sepulchre.     Yet  hast  thou  left  no  trace 
On  History's  tablet ;  and  in  vain  we  ask 
Yon  voiceless  stones  of  thee. 

Was  hoarded  wealth 

Thine  idol,  like  thy  husband's  ?     Didst  thou  vaunt 
His  venal  honors,  and  exalt  the  power 
Of  the  triumvir, — in  thy  purple  robes 
Presiding  at  his  feasts, — to  every  lip 
Pressing  the  goblet,  even  while  Rome  was  sick 
With  pomp  and  revel  ? — Or  in  secret  cell, 
To  thy  Penates  breath  the  pagan  prayer 
In  trembling,  for  his  sake  ? — Or  last  in  weeds 


122  THE    TOMB    OF    CECILIA    METELLA. 

Of  solitary  widowhood,  deplore 

His  breathless  bosom  pierced  by  Parthian  darts  ? 

There  is  no  record  on  you  massy  walls, 
Of  thy  last  deeds.     Even  thy  sarcophagus 
Is  rifled,  and  the  golden  urn  that  locked 
Thy  mouldering  ashes,  proved  but  fitting  bribe 
For  the  bold  robber. 

Thy  Patrician  dust — 

How  doth  it  differ  from  the  household  slave's, 
Who,  'neath  thy  bidding,  at  the  distaff  wrought  ? 
Or  doomed  to  sterner  toil,  in  ponderous  vase 
Bore  the  cool  Martian  waters  for  thy  wine  ? 

How  vain  to  question  thus  thy  gorgeous  tomb, 
False  to  its  trust ! 

The  thick-ribb'd  arch  of  rock 
Lays  claim  to  immortality ;  but  dust, — 
Man's  dust,  must  yield  each  element  a  part, 
To  pay  Creation's  loan.     Nor  can  he  cling' 
To  the  brief  memory  of  his  shadowy  race, 
Save  through  his  deeds. 

Oh  woman  ! — nurse  of  man  ! 
Make  not  thy  bed  beneath  the  imposing  arch, 
Or  sky-crowned  pyramid.     Enshrine  thyself, 
With  all  thy  buried  virtues,  in  the  heart 
Of  him  who  loves  thee.     Be  thine  epitaph 


THE    TOMB    OP    CECILIA    METELLA.  123 

The  graces  of  thine  offspring,  and  the  thanks 
Of  those  who  mourn. 

So  shalt  thou  miss  the  pomp 
Of  this  world's  triumph,  and  thy  noteless  grave 
Be  glorious  at  the  resurrection  morn. 


THE  UPAS  TREE. 

THERE  sprang  a  tree  of  deadly  name, 
Its  poisonous  breath,  its  baleful  dew, 

Scorched  the  green  earth,  like  lava-flame, 
And  every  plant  of  mercy  slew. 

From  clime  to  clime  its  branches  spread 
Their  fearful  fruits  of  sin  and  woe, — 

The  prince  of  darkness  loved  its  shade, 
And  toiled  its  fiery  seed  to  sow. 

Faith  poured  her  prayer  at  midnight  hour, 
The  hand  of  zeal  at  noonday  wrought, 

And  armor  of  celestial  power 

The  children  of  the  Cross  besought. 

Behold  !  the  axe  its  pride  shall  wound, 

Through  its  cleft  boughs  the  sunbeams  shine, 

Its  blasted  blossoms  strew  the  ground, — 
Give  glory  to  the  Arm  Divine  ! 

And  still  Jehovah's  aid  implore, 

From  isle  to  isle,  from  sea  to  sea : — 

From  peopled  earth's  remotest  shore, 
To  root  that  deadly  Upas  Tree. 


A  WALK  IN  CHILDHOOD. 


'  There  was  a  time,  when  meadow,  grove  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  a  wondrous  light, 
The  glory,  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream !" 

WORDSWORTH. 


WHEN  my  years  were  few,  I  loved  to  sit  under  the 
shadow  of  gray  rugged  rocks,  and  listen  to  the  falling 
waters.  I  learned  to  know  where  the  first  violets  sprang, 
and  where  the  lily  of  the  valley  hid  behind  its  broad 
leaf ;  and  where  the  forest  nuts  ripen,  when  the  frost 
sparkles  upon  the  earth. 

I  saw  the  squirrel  putting  acorns  in  his  nest  for  the 
winter,  and  where  the  bee  stores  the  essence,  which  sing- 
ing, she  wins  from  the  flowers.  I  sought  to  draw  forth 
the  kindness  of  domestic  animals,  and  to  know  the  names 
of  the  birds  that  yearly  built  in  my  father's  trees. 

But  of  my  own  race,  who  have  the  gift  of  reason,  with 
dominion  over  the  beasts  of  the  field  and  the  fowls  of  the 
air,  I  knew  little  ;  save  of  the  parents  who  nurtured  me, 
and  the  few  children  with  whom  I  had  sometimes  played 
on  the  summer  turf. 

I  said,  "  If  the  plant  that  flourishes  only  a  few  days 
is  happy,  and  the  bird  that  bears  to  its  young  a  single 


126  A    WALK    IN    CHILDHOOD. 

broken  cherry,  and  the  poor  lamb  that  has  no  friend  but 
its  mother;  how  much  happier  must  they  be  whom  God 
hath  made  to  rule  over  them,  and  who  are  surrounded 
by  good  things  like  a  flowing  river,  and  who  know  that 
when  they  seem  to  die,  it  is  but  to  live  forever." 

So  I  desired  to  turn  away  from  the  herbs  of  the  field, 
and  look  more  attentively  upon  the  ways  of  men.  Once, 
I  was  permitted  to  walk  abroad,  when  the  dews  of  the 
morning  were  fresh  upon  the  grass,  and  all  the  things  of 
nature  seemed  beautiful,  and  full  of  love. 

A  group  of  children  were  in  the  streets.  Methought 
they  were  unwashed,  and  unfed.  They  clamored  loudly, 
with  idle  tongues.  I  asked  them  why  they  went  not  to 
the  schools,  where  knowledge  was  gathered.  But  they 
mocked  at  me,  and  hasted  away. 

Two  neighbors  met  each  other.  They  were  called 
friends ;  but  they  spake  loud,  and  angry  words.  Then 
they  quarrelled,  and  I  was  frightened  at  the  blows  they 
dealt. 

I  saw  a  man  with  a  fiery  face.  He  was  tall,  and 
strongly  built,  like  the  oak  among  the  trees.  Yet  were 
his  steps  unsteady  as  those  of  the  tottering  babe.  He 
lifted  up  a  hoarse  foolish  song,  like  a  creature  without 
understanding.  Then  he  reeled,  and  fell  heavily,  as  one 
dead..  I  marvelled  that  no  hand  was  stretched  to  raise 
him  up. 

Again  I  walked  forth,  by  the  silent  valley  where  the 
dead  repose.  A  coffin  was  let  down  into  an  open  grave. 


A    WALK    IN    CHILDHOOD.  .  127 

At  its  brink  stood  a  widowed  woman,  with  her  little 
ones.  They  looked  sad,  and  bowed  with  trouble ;  yet, 
methought,  on  their  shrivelled  brows  the  marks  of  famine 
were  deeper  set  than  the  seal  of  sorrow  for  the  dead. 

Then  I  asked  in  my  wonder,  "  What  made  the  parents 
not  pity  their  children  when  they  hungered,  nor  call 
them  home  when  they  were  in  wickedness  ?  What  made 
the  friends  forget  their  first  love  ?  and  the  strong  man 
fall  down  senseless  ?  and  the  young  die  before  his  time  ?" 

Then  a  voice  answered,  "  Intemperance  !  And  there  is 
mourning  in  the  land  because  of  this." 

So  I  returned  to  my  home  sorrowing.  And  had  God 
given  me  a  brother  or  sister,  I  would  have  thrown  my 
arms  around  their  neck,  and  entreated,  "  Touch  not  your 
lips  to  the  poison-cup  ;  but  let  us  drink  the  pure  water, 
which  God  hath  blessed,  all  the  days  of  our  lives." 


I  SAW  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 


SONG   FOR    CHILDREN. 

I  SAW  a  little  girl, 

With  half  uncovered  form, 
And  wondered  why  she  wandered  thus 

Amid  the  winter  storm. 

They  said  her  mother  drank  of  that 
Which  took  her  sense  away, 

And  so,  she  let  her  children,  roam 
Unheeded,  day  by  day. 

I  saw  them  take  a  man 

To  prison  for  his  crime, 
Where  solitude,  and  punishment, 

And  toil  divide  the  time. 

And  as  they  led  him  through  the  gate 

Unwillingly  along, 
They  told  me  'twas  intemperance, 

That  made  him  do  the  wrong. 


I    SAW    A    LITTLE    GIRL.  129 

I  saw  a  woman  weep, 

As  though  her  heart  would  break  ; — 
They  said  her  husband  drank  too  much 

Of  what  he  should  not  take. 

I  saw  an  unfrequented  mound, 

Where  weeds  and  brambles  wave  ; — 

On  which  had  fallen  no  mourning  tear, — 
It  was  the  drunkard's  grave. 

They  said  these  were  not  all 

The  risks  the  intemperate  run, — 
For  there  was  danger,  lest  the  soul 

Be  evermore  undone. 

Since  crystal  water  is  so  sweet, 

And  beautiful  to  see, 
And  never  leads  to  harm  or  woe, 

It  is  the  drink  for  me. 


THE  DEATH  OF  KING  EDMUND. 

THE  Saxon  Edmund,  reigned  o'er  Albion's  isle, 
Nine  centuries  since. 

Scarce  had  the  ruddy  bloom 
Of  seventeen  summers  ripened  on  his  cheek, 
Ere  he  was  called  to  try  the  toils  that  wait 
A  ruler  of  rude  men.     Though  his  young  heart 
At  times,  remembered  with  a  thrill  of  pride 
His  grandsire  Alfred, — justly  styled  the  Great, 
Yet  was  it  idly  wont  to  rest  its  claim 
More  on  ancestral  virtues,  than  its  own, 
Boastful  of  buried  glory.     Still,  he  earned 
From  his  barbaric  dynasty,  the  name 
Of  the  Magnificent,  and  the  fierce  crews 
Of  pirate  Danes,  vexing  the  British  shores, 
Confessed  his  prowess  ;  while  his  penal  codes 
Peopled  the  gibbets  with  those  robber  hordes 
Who  long  had  foraged  on  the  rifled  wealth 
Of  weaker  neighbors. 

Thus,  the  years  flowed  on, 
Till  the  seventh  winter  saw  the  envied  crown 
Still  on  his  brow.     Once,  at  a  royal  feast 
Around  his  board,  the  warriors,  and  the  thanes 


THE  DEATH  OF  KING  EDMUND.        131 

He  gathered ;  while  with  savage  mirth  they  drain'd, 
The  mighty  goblet,  smiting  on  their  shields 
In  chorus,  as  the  scalds  some  favorite  lay 
Uplifted,  of  old  heroes. 

Deep,  the  king 

Drank  of  the  flowing  mead,  and  gazing  round 
In  fiery  exultation,  fixed  his  eye 
Amid  the  distant  dimness  of  the  hall, 
Upon  a  banished  outlaw. 

"  Hence  !"  he  cried, 

"  Dar'st  thou  to  scorn  my  sentence,  and  return  ? — 
Hence,  from  my  sight !" 

But  still,  the  muffled  man 

Moved  not,  and  scowling  'neath  his  bushy  locks 
With  careless  credence,  or  defiance  cold, 
Gave  insolent  regard. 

So,  from  his  seat 

The  frantic  monarch  leaping,  mad  with  wine, 
Closed  with  the  ruffian,  though  a  dagger  flash'd 
Like  lightning,  and  the  royal  bosom  felt 
The  keenness  of  its  point. — 

One  moment,  high 

Spouted  the  red  heart's  blood, — the  next,  there  lay 
A  frowning  corse. 

Thus,  Saxon  Edmund  fell, 

Whom  men  called  king,  but  Wisdom  deems  a  slave 
To  appetite  and  passion.     He  who  boasts 
His  liberty,  yet  wears  their  secret  chain, 


132        THE  DEATH  OF  KING  EDMUND. 

Doth  bow  to  darker  servitude  and  shame 
Than  even  the  serf  he  scorns. 

Giver  of  grace, 

Instruct  us  with  our  earliest  years  to  blend 
Meekness  and  temperance,  and  so  'scape  the  snare 
Of  keen  remorse,  and  guilt  that  hath  no  hope. 


OLD  ALCOHOL. 


OLD  Alcohol's  the  foe 

Of  virtue,  and  of  man, — 
He  lays  his  victims  low, 

We'll  fly  him  while  we  can, — 
And  seek  the  rill 
That  gushing  flows, 
The  antidote 
For  all  his  woes. 

Old  Alcohol's  the  friend 

Of  sin,  despair,  and  death, — 
Let  us  his  fetters  rend, 

And  shun  his  burning  hreath,- 
And  seek  the  rill 
That  gushing  flows, 
The  antidote 
For  all  his  woes. 


THE  EMIGRANT  BRIDE. 


"  Fare  ye  well !    Fare  ye  well ! — 
To  joy  and  to  hope  It  sounds  as  a  knell ; — 

Cruel  tale  it  were  to  tell 
How  the  emigrant  sighs  farewell  !"— 
TUP 


Two,  rather  antique-looking  people  were  conversing 
cozily,  towards  the  close  of  a  vernal  day.  The  bow- 
window  where  they  sate  looked  out  upon  lawn  and 
garden,  and  was  partially  shaded  by  the  twining  con- 
volvulus, which  at  dewy  morn  was  redolent  of  its  deep- 
blue  and  crimson  bells. 

"Brother,  did  you  ever  think  our  Susan  had  some 
thoughts  she  did  not  reveal  ?" 

"  What  kind  of  thoughts  ?" 

"  Why,  has  it  never  crossed  your  mind,  that  she  might 
be  in  love  ?" 

"  In  love  ?  The  child !  What  can  you  be  dreaming 
about,  sister  Sibyl  ?" 

"  Child  indeed  !  Eighteen  next  candlemas,  Mr  Morti- 
mer. If  I  am  not  mistaken,  her  mother  was  younger, 
when  she  stood  at  the  altar  with  our  brother.  Perhaps 
I  might  say,  when  she  led  him  there,  for  he  was  utterly 
bewildered,  and  blinded  by  the  love  of  her." 


THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE.  135 


"She  was  truly  lovely.  But  tell  me,  whose  image 
your  imaginings  have  coupled  with  our  pretty  niece  ?" 

"  Whose  image  ?  why,  the  young  spark,  Henry  Elton, 
of  course.  A  fine  match,  upon  my  word ;  he  having 
nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  and  of  no  family,  as  you 
may  say.  I  always  thought  Susan  ought  to  marry  some 
nobleman.  And  so  she  might,  with  a  proper  ambition. 
Such  sights  of  money  as  you  have  lavished  on  her  educa- 
tion too,  playing  on  the  spinet  and  working  tent-stich. 
Of  what  great  use  will  such  fine  things  be,  when  she  is 
the  wife  of  so  very  undistinguished  a  personage  ?  I 
think  she  is  ungrateful  to  you, — indeed,  to  us  both." 

"  It  is  most  probable  that  your  fancy  outruns  all  fact. 
Still,  if  your  suspicions  prove  true,  I  should  regret  it,  not 
so  much  for  the  reason  you  have  given,  as  that  the  young 
man  has  some  spice  of  wildness,  and  want  of  considera- 
tion, which  might  affect  the  happiness  of  the  poor  girl. 
Shall  I  speak  to  her  ?" 

"  Oh  mercy,  my  dear  brother  !  not  for  the  world.  You 
men  are  always  so  hasty.  Such  matters  need  the  utmost 
tact  and  delicacy.  The  young  heart  is  an  exquisite  harp, 
which  few  can  play  upon,  without  disordering  its  strings. 
Trust  that  to  me.  There  she  is,  coming  from  her  walk, 
and  that  very  Henry  Elton  with  her,  to  be  sure !  Have 
the  goodness,  brother,  to  leave  the  room.  No  time  like 
present  time,  as  the  proverb  says." 

A  fair  girl  was  seen  approaching  the  house,  the  rich  curls 
of  auburn  hair  escaping  from  under  her  hat,  and  shading 


136  THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE. 

neck  and  shoulder.  By  her  side  was  a  graceful  young 
man,  who  bore  upon  his  arm  her  basket  of  wild  flowers. 
A  ramble  in  the  green  lanes  of  merry  England  had  given 
them  new  spirits,  and  their  voices,  mingled  with  occa- 
sional laughter,  rang  out  joyously.  Her  companion  took 
leave,  and  she  entered  with  a  light  step, — 

"  See,  aunt,  these  fresh  violets,  and  this," 

"  Bless  me  !  Miss  Mortimer.  I  suppose  it  is  highly 
decorous  to  walk  with  your  hat  untied,  and  to  chatter  so 
long  at  the  gate  with  a  gentleman." 

Amazement  seized  the  young  creature,  a  moment  since 
so  gay.  Miss  Mortimer  !  This  was  always  an  epithet 
of  great  displeasure.  What  could  have  happened  ?  The 
full,  blue  eyes,  which  just  before  had  sparkled  like 
saphires,  dilated,  and  with  lips  slightly  parted,  and  foot 
advanced,  she  stood,  checked  and  silent, — a  song-bird 
startled  by  the  thunder. 

"Do  you  know  that  everybody  is  talking  of  your 
familiarity  with  that  Henry  Elton,  and  of  his  awful  dissi- 
pation too  ?  Your  uncle,  and  all," 

"  My  dear  aunt !" 

"Yes!  dear  aunt,  indeed!  Your  uncle  is  not  quite 
blind,  nor  deaf  either.  Poor  man !  he  might  have  had 
higher  hopes  for  his  favorite  brother's  daughter.  So 
liberal  too,  as  he  has  always  been, — no  expense  spared. 
It  is  a  burning  shame,  to  show  no  more  regard  to  his 
feelings." 

"  I  assure  you,  aunt !" 


THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE.  137 

"  You  need  not  assure  me  at  all, — I'm  able  to  assure 
myself.  But  if  you  do  not  see  fit  to  give  up  Henry 
Elton,  and  mate  yourself  with  some  titled  person,  or  one 
more  fitting  for  our  family,  it  will  not  be  so  well  for  you, 
I  can  assure  you  of  that.  It  will  not  be  difficult  to  find 
one  who  will  show  more  gratitude  to  us,  for  lesser  favors. 
You  need  not  take  the  trouble  to  answer  me." 

The  surprise  of  the  listener  gave  way  to  a  rush  of 
other  feelings.  The  color  deepened  in  her  pure  Saxon 
complexion,  but  she  replied  not ;  though  the  compression 
of  her  bright  lip,  proved  that  it  cost  some  effort  to  be 
silent.  Henceforth  a  new  subject  occupied  her  medita- 
tion, and  the  floating  filament  and  shadow  of  a  preference, 
became  a  fixed  thought. 

Miss  Sibyl  lost  no  time  in  reporting  to  her  brother, 
that  Susan  was  deeply  in  love,  and  desperately  bent  on 
having  her  own  way. 

"  I  could  see  it  in  every  movement.  She  is  her 
mother  over  again, — whom  I  never  could  bear.  Her 
father,  too,  had  a  right  obstinate  temper.  Considering 
he  was  only  a  half-brother,  I  have  sometimes  wondered 
at  your  partiality  for  his  daughter.  I  am  sure  our  own 
dear  sister  would  be  glad  to  give  us  her  Euphemia,  who 
would  not  make  us  half  the  trouble  that  Susan  has." 

This  matter  had  been  hinted  before  by  the  adroit  lady, 
but  her  brother's  heart  still  continued  to  turn  to  his 
orphan  protege.  Yet  having  always  maintained  towards 
her  a  reserved  and  dignified  manner,  she  was  not  aware 


138  THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE. 


of  his  attachment,  and  native  timidity  prevented  her  ap- 
proaching him  with  freedom.  Mutually  misunderstand- 
ing each  other,  constraint  deepened  into  apparent  cold- 
ness, and  diffidence  was  mistaken  for  pride.  The  blight 
of  a  joyless  home  fell  on  the  spirit  of  the  young  girl,  and 
she  grew  careworn,  before  her  time. 

Days  passed  away  on  leaden  feet,  and  the  early  flowers 
for  whose  birth  she  had  waited,  withered  unnoticed  in 
their  turfy  beds.  At  the  foot  of  the  pleasant  garden  of 
the  Mortimers,  was  a  summer-house.  The  full  moon, 
looking  through  its  vines  and  lattice-work,  saw  it  not 
untenanted.  Two  persons  were  discoverable,  with  heads 
declined,  as  if  in  conversation  more  profound  than  the 
gayety  of  youth  would  prompt.  Suddenly,  one  starts 
into  action,  genuflection,  gesture,  such  as  excited  feeling, 
or  eloquence  inspire.  It  might  be  seen  that  he  has  an 
auditor  absorbed,  and  not  unmoved. 

The  pantomime,  though  protracted,  has  a  close.  Of 
its  scope  and  result,  somewhat  may  be  gathered  by  the 
bearing  of  the  parties,  as  they  issue  from  the  bower. 
Moving  slowly  through  the  long  lines  of  shrubbery,  the 
manner  of  one  is  earnest,  tender,  and  tinctured  with  the 
power  of  prevalence.  The  other  leans  heavily  on  his 
arm,  her  fair  brow  inclining  towards  his ;  and  as  they 
reach  the  porch  where  they  are  to  separate,  her  clear, 
lustrous  eye  gazes  steadfastly  into  his,  as  if  to  gather  one 
more  assurance,  that  the  image  of  her  own  love  is  fully 
reflected  there. 


THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE.  139 

A  ship  rides  at  anchor  on  an  English  coast.  The  night 
is  rayless,  and  winds  moan  with  a  hollow  sound.  The 
midnight  watch  is  called ;  but  the  captain  still  lingers  on 
deck,  as  if  engaged  in  some  preparation  for  his  expected 
departure  at  early  morn. 

The  tramp  of  flying  steeds  is  heard  on  the  shore.  Then 
the  dash  of  an  oar, — a  boat  has  put  forth  into  the  thick 
darkness.  Soon  a  group,  muffled  in  cloaks,  ascend  the 
deck  of  the  vessel.  One  seems  exhausted,  and  is  sup- 
ported by  a  stronger  arm.  Then,  by  the  dull  red  light 
of  the  binnacle,  a  cavalier  stands  forth  with  uncovered 
head,  and  by  his  side  a  vision  of  beauty.  The  melody  of  the 
marriage  service  trembles  strangely  upon  that  bleak,  mid- 
night air.  Hands  are  joined, — •"  Till  death  us  do  part ." 

What  a  place, — timid  and  tender  creature  !  for  vows 
like  these, — the  rough  ship,  and  the  tossing  sea.  None 
of  thy  kindred  blood  near  to  bless  thee,  or  soothe  the 
pulsations  of  thy  fluttering  heart ! 

"  Safe  from  all  persecution  ! — Mine  own  forever  !" 

Well-timed  words,  young  bridegroom.  They  bring  a 
faint  rose-leaf  tinge  over  cheek  and  brow,  so  deadly  pale. 
The  benediction  of  the  priest  fell,  like  oil  upon  the 
troubled  waters  ;  and  throwing  himself,  with  his  attend- 
ants, into  the  waiting  boat,  he  rapidly  regained  the 
shore. 

The  next  morning  beheld  the  ship,  and  her  compan- 
ions, with  unfurled  sails  leave  the  harbor  of  Plymouth. 
Cloud  and  blast  had  passed  away  with  night,  but  were 


140  THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE. 


replaced  by  a  dense  fog.  So  they  still  hovered,  like 
half-wakened  sea-birds,  lazily  along  the  coast. 

At  midday,  a  barge  was  seen  approaching.  With  a 
buoyant  movement  it  skimmed  the  waves,  now  rising 
half  upright  upon  some  crested  billow,  and  anon,  sinking 
gracefully  into  the  intermediate  vale  of  waters. 

Among  the  many  who  watched  its  progress,  none 
testified  such  overwhelming  anxiety  as  Henry  Elton,  and 
his  bride.  Apprehension  that  they  might  be  the  objects 
of  pursuit,  raised  a  tide  of  tumultuous  emotion.  The 
young  man  walked  apart  with  the  captain,  vehemently 
demanding  that  the  ship  should  hold  on  her  course. 
And  when  he  again  seated  himself  by  her  side,  whose 
azure  eye  followed  his  every  movement, — an  unsheathed 
weapon  was  observed  to  glitter  beneath  his  mantle. 

A  cavalier  closely  muffled,  with  a  single  servant,  leaped 
on  board.  Requesting  a  private  interview  with  the 
captain,  they  descended  together  to  the  cabin.  Henry 
Elton,  passing  one  arm  firmly  around  his  bride,  whispered 
in  her  ear,  "  Till  death  us  do  part!"  while  a  sword 
gleamed  in  his  right  hand.  How  endlfess  seemed  that 
interval  of  suspense. 

At  length  ascending  footsteps  were  heard,  with  a 
suppressed  murmur  of  "  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  !"  The  eye 
of  every  gazer  testified  pleasure,  as  it  rested  on  the  noble 
form  of  the  most  accomplished  knight  of  his  times.  His 
Spanish  cloak,  thrown  over  one  arm,  discovered  that 
magnificence  of  costume  in  which  he  delighted,  and 


THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE.  141 

which  his  elegance  of  person  so  well  became.  To  all 
who  surrounded  him,  he  addressed  some  kind  or  courtly 
phrase,  with  his  habitual  tact  and  fluency.  Fixing  his 
eagle  eye  on  the  bride,  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and 
said, — 

"And  thou  too,  here,  pretty  Dove?  I  knew  thy 
father  well,  in  the  Low  Countries.  A  brave  man  was 
he  and  a  noble.  Heaven  help  thee  to  build  thy  nest  in 
yon  far  flowery  groves,  where  I  would  fain  myself  be." 

Pressing  a  paternal  kiss  on  her  pure  forehead,  and 
once  more  heartily  shaking  the  hand  of  the  commander, 
he  said, — 

"  My  good  people,  that  you  will  show  all  due  respect 
and  obedience  to  so  excellent  a  seaman  as  Captain  White, 
I  make  no  doubt.  But  more  than  this, — I  present  him 
to  you  as  the  future  Governor  of  the  colony  which,  God 
willing,  you  are  to  plant  in  the  new  Western  World." 

Then  placing  in  his  hand  a  sealed  paper,  containing 
instructions  for  the  new  government,  and  the  names 
of  the  twelve  assistants  by  whose  aid  it  was  to  be  admin- 
istered,—he  bade  all  a  courteous  farewell,  with  "good 
wishes,  and  a  golden  lot." 

Loud  and  long  was  the  voice  of  cheer  and  gratulation, 
as  he  departed.  Bowing  his  thanks,  and  then  standing 
erect  in  the  tossing  boat,  he  waved  his  hat  with  its  fair 
white  plumes.  Far  in  the  distance  they  saw  it  dancing 
amid  the  sea-foam,  and  conversed  enthusiastically  of  the 
man,  who  yet  scarcely  thirty-five,  had  already  become 


142  THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE. 

illustrious  in  arts  and  arms, — a  scholar,  courtier,  poet  and 
statesman,  liberal  as  a  patron  of  literature,  and  the  very 
soul  of  all  enterprise  for  the  settlement  of  the  new-found 
continent  of  America.  As  they  watched  him,  until  his 
barge  was  a  speck  on  the  far  waters,  no  prescience  re- 
vealed the  darkening  of  his  fortunes  : — the  conspiracy  of 
his  foes,  a  tyrant  king,  the  prison,  and  the  scaffold. 


Three  small  ships,  long  beaten  by  the  Atlantic  surge, 
approached  the  shores  of  that  region  which,  less  than  a 
century  before,  the  world-finder  had  unveiled.  The  con- 
flict of  months  with  blast-  and  billow  had  not  left  them 
unscathed,  and  they  moved  heavily,  like  the  nagging  sea- 
gull, towards  the  desired  haven. 

It  was  the  summer  of  1587,  when  Virginia,  in  her 
gorgeous  robes,  gleamed  out  to  the  worn  voyagers  like 
the  isles  of  the  blessed.  Her  flowering  trees  and  shrubs, 
sent  a  welcome  on  the  wings  of  odors,  ere  the  embroidered 
turf  kissed  their  feet. 

Vines,  loaded  with  clusters,  enriched  field  and  grove  ; 
here  forming  dense  canopies  and  bowers  of  shade,  and 
there  springing  loftily  from  tree-top  to  tree-top,  with 
bold  festoons  and  flowing  drapery.  Deer  glanced  through 
the  forest,  and  birds  of  gay  plumage  filled  the  balmy  air 
with  music. 

The  strangers  sought  out  the  spot,  near  the  bright  waters 
of  the  Roanoake,  where,  two  years  before,  Sir  Richard 


THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE.  143 

Grenville  had  planted  a  colony  of  frail  root,  whose  rem- 
nant had  been  borne  back  by  Sir  Francis  Drake,  to  its 
native  soil. 

These  guests  of  the  hospitality  of  the  broad,  green 
West,  were  full  of  exultation,  and  zealous  to  construct 
places  of  shelter  and  repose.  None  more  ardently  re- 
joiced, when  a  little  dwelling  was  ready,  which  they 
might  call  their  own,  than  Henry  Elton  and  his  bride. 
Its  rudeness,  its  narrow  limits  were  nought  to  them,  so 
entirely  happy  were  they  to  possess  a  home  amid  the 
charms  of  nature  and  the  solitude  of  love.  Here  was 
their  most  romantic  wish  fulfilled, — a  lodge  in  the  green 
wooti,  and  a  beautiful  world  to  themselves. 

Alas  for  Susan,  when  a  change  stole  over  her  dream  ! 
Enthusiastic,  and  turning,  like  the  flower  of  the  sun,  to 
one  alone,  she  had  not  taken  into  view  that  the  cloud 
and  the  frost  must  have  their  season.  At  first,  she  won- 
dered that  Henry  could  so  often  leave  her,  and  so  long 
be  gone ;  or  that,  at  his  return,  he  omitted  the  tender 
words  she  had  been  accustomed  to  hear.  But  the  smile 
was  ever  radiant  on  her  brow  when  he  appeared ;  and 
during  his  absence,  she  found  solace  in  household  toils, 
putting  her  slender,  snowy  hands,  with  strange  facility, 
to  the  humblest  deeds  that  might  render  a  poor  abode 
comfortable,  or  vary  his  repast  who  was  ever  first  in  her 
thoughts.  While  thus  employed,  her  voice  rang  out 
sweetly  from  the  catalpas  that  embowered  her  dwelling, 
so  that  it  would  seem  that  the  birds  and  herself  were  at  a 


144  THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE. 

loving  strife.  But  the  tuneful  emulation  ceased,  and  her 
song  rose  sad  and  seldom, — and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

A  deeper  shadow  had  fallen  upon  her  lot.  Captious- 
ness  was  added  to  indifference,  by  him  for  whom  she  had 
literally  given  up  all  beside.  A  fearful  conviction,  which 
she  strongly  resisted,  forced  itself  upon  her,  of  his  fre- 
quent intemperance.  Careless  of  the  duties  of  a  pro- 
tector, he  Avould  sometimes  be  away  whole  nights  ;  while 
at  his  return,  she  was  doomed  to  witness  the  disgusting 
gradations  from  stupidity  to  brutality. 

Compunction,  indeed,  occasionally  seized  him ;  and  at 
his  reviving  kindness,  her  young  hope  comforted  her  that 
all  would  yet  be  well,  and  her  woman's  love  forgot* that 
it  had  ever  wept.  The  adversities  of  the  colony  proved 
also  a  temporary  remedy.  Poverty,  and  a  scarcity  of  the 
means  of  subsistence,  checked  the  power  of  revelry,  and 
drove  the  inebriate  to  abstinence.  Some  fear  of  savage 
warfare  drew  the  little  band  more  firmly  together,  for 
consultation  and  safety.  The  fierce  Wingina,  with  his 
followers,  were  observed  prowling  around  the  settlement. 
There  was  then  no  Powhatan  to  succor  the  strangers, — 
no  Pocahontas  to  save  the  victim,  at  the  jeopardy  of  her 
own  life. 

In  the  meantime,  she  who  had  staked  her  all  on  love, 
and  lost,  was  tenacious  of  its  fragments.  Every  pleasant 
look  or  gentle  word,  though  few  and  far  between,  was 
treasured  as  an  equivalent  for  many  sorrows.  She  was 
learning,  day  by  day,  the  lesson  that  human  love  may 


THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE.  145 

never  lay  aside  the  element  of  forbearance.  It  was 
touching  to  see  so  young  and  fair  a  creature,  so  mourn- 
ful, and  yet  so  calm. 

One  evening,  she  had  waited  long  for  her  husband, 
but  he  came  not.  This  was  but  too  common,  since  he 
had  become  the  slave  of  intemperance.  A  step  was 
heard.  Can  that  be  his? — so  stealthy?  Tlie  slight 
fastening  of  the  door  was  burst  in.  Dark  faces  peered — 
wild  forms  glimmered.  The  stroke  of  a  hatchet,  and  the 
red  flame  bursting  from  the  low  roof-tree,  were  the  work 
of  a  moment ; — and  from  the  girdle  of  the  tallest  warrior, 
when  he  strode  from  the  spoil,  hung  a  scalp,  with  a 
dripping,  auburn  tress. 

That  night,  the  wail  of  a  wretched  man  was  heard 
over  the  ashes — and  the  dead.  Daybreak  beheld  him, 
with  others,  armed,  and  going  forth  in  quest  of  vengeance. 
The  fires  of  wrath  fell  on  many  a  quiet  wigwam,  and  in- 
nocent women  and  babes  perished  for  the  crime  of  their 
chieftain.  Such  is  the  justice  of  the  war-spirit ;  blind, 
bloody,  and  ferocious. 

Three  years  notched  their  seasons  on  the  trees,  and 
threw  their  shadows  over  the  earth,  ere  England  stretched 
forth  her  hand  to  that  far,  forsaken  colony.  Then,  three 
storm-driven  vessels,  as  the  dog-star  commenced  his 
reign,  were  seen  contending  with  the  terrible  breakers  of 
Cape  Hatteras.  Outriding  both  surge  and  tempest,  at 
length,  with  strained  cordage  and  riven  sails,  they  neared 
the  shore. 


146  THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE. 

They  fired  signal-guns,  and  anxiously  listened, — but 
there  was  no  sound.  They  pressed  on  towards  Roanoke, 
Governor  White,  who  had  been  absent  on  an- agency  to 
England,  taking  the  lead.  Where  was  his  sweet  daughter 
Ellinor,  whom  he  had  left  in  her  green-wood  home,  sing- 
ing the  lullaby  to  her  young  babe,  Virginia,  the  first  born 
of  English  parents  in  the  new  Western  World  ?  As  he 
drew  near  the  spot,  he  kept  his  eye  fixed,  with  agoniz- 
ing earnestness,  on  a  copse  of  lofty  pines  that  had  en- 
circled her  habitation.  Smoke  reared  its  curling  volume 
among  them,  and  his  heart  leaped  up. — It  was  the 
smouldering  council-fire  of  the  Indians. 

Not  a  home  of  civilized  man  was  there, — not  a  form 
or  face  of  kindred  or  of  friend.  They  call.  There  is  no 
answer  but  echo,  murmuring  from  rock  and  ravine. 

Names  and  initials  are  still  cut  deeply  on  the  trees. 
But  where  are  the  hands  that  traced  them  ?  All  is 
silence, — save  the  steps  of  those  who  search,  and  the  sighs 
of  those  who  mourn. 

By  the  shore  there  was  no  boat, — over  some  broken 
oars,  grass  and  weeds  had  crept.  Ruins  of  former  abodes 
were  here  and  there  visible: — portions  of  household 
utensils,  and  implements  of  agriculture,  scattered  along 
the  sands  and  corroded  with  moisture.  Mingled  with 
them  were  fragments  of  chests,  torn  charts,  and  mutilated 
books. 

Among  the  latter  was  a  thrilling  relic.  A  Bible,  with 
the  name  of  "  Susan  Mortimer  Elton,"  covered  with 


THE    EMIGRANT    BRIDE.  147 

sanguine  spots.  Ah  !  were  those  fair  eyes  resting  upon 
that  blessed  book,  when  the  destroyer  came  ?  Was  she 
there  gathering  strength  for  her  thorn-clad  journey,  when 
that  journey  was  about  to  close  ?  Sacred  pages  !  did 
she  learn  from  you,  that  earthly  love  without  divine,  is 
unsafe  for  the  heirs  of  immortality  ?  When  her  heart's 
idol  was  broken,  did  she  hearken  to  your  whisper,  "  Come, 
weary,  heavy-laden,  and  I  will  give  thee  rest  ?" 

Blood-stained  Bible,  from  Virginian  sands  !  we  thank 
thee  for  thine  enduring  friendship, — for  thy  last  holy 
offices  to  the  Emigrant  Bride. 


TO  COLLEGE  STUDENTS, 

Who  had  pledged  themselves  to  abstain  from  Intoxi- 
cating Liquors. 

CONSCRIPTS  in  Virtue's  holy  war, 

Who,  at  your  country's  call, 
Thus  gird  the  diamond  cuirass  on 

Within  your  classic  hall, — 

Be  valiant  for  your  native  clime, 

Till  all  that  Circean  train 
•     Whose  cup  transforms  unwary  souls, 
Are,  with  their  leader,  slain. 

So,  when  the  pride  and  pomp  of  earth 
From  life's  short  dream  shall  cleave, 

And  each  uncurtained  deed  and  thought 
Its  due  reward  receive, — 

A  nobler  victory  shall  be  yours, — 

If  faithful  to  the  last, — 
Than  theirs,  who  wake  the  clarion  cry 

Of  battle's  fearful  blast. 


TO    COLLEGE    STUDENTS.  149 

Yes ;  they  whose  youth  hath  vanquished  sin, 

Through  a  Redeemer's  name, — 
Shall  find  their  record  in  a  Book 

That  bides  the  Doomsday  flame. 


WOMAN'S  MISSION. 

Written  on  hearing  a  young  Lady  praise  Home  and  its  duties. 

How  sweet  to  hear  those  lips  of  rose 
The  cause  of  humble  virtue  pleading ; 

While  Wit  his  dazzling  weapon  shows, 
Advancing  near,  and  now  receding. 

How  sweet  to  see  that  sparkling  eye 
The  bosom's  sacred  warmth  confessing, 

Where  sleep  those  germs  of  sympathy 
Whose  fragrance  heightens  every  blessing. 

How  sweet  to  know  that  gentle  heart, 
So  skill'd  to  soothe  the  hour  of  sadness, 

Will  draw  of  pain  the  envemon'd  dart, 
And  bid  life's  current  flow  with  gladness. 

Home  is  man's  Ark,  when  troub^springs, 
When  gathering  clouds  menace  his  morrow ; 

And  woman's  love,  the  bird  that  brings 
His  olive-leaf,  o'er  floods  of  sorrow. 


HYMN. 

WE  praise  Thee,  if  one  rescued  soul, 
Too  long  the  slave  of  guilt  and  pain, 

Hath  shuddering  left  the  poisonous  bowl, 
For  health  and  liberty  again. 

We  praise  Thee,  if  one  clouded  home, 
Where  broken  hearts  despairing  pin'd, 

Behold  the  sire,  and  husband  come 
Erect,  and  in  his  perfect  mind : — 

No  more  a  hapless  wife  to  mock, 
Till  all  her  hopes  in  anguish  end, — 

No  more  the  trembling  babe  to  shock, 
And  sink  the  father  in  the  fiend. 

Still  give  us  grace,  Almighty  King, 
Unswerving  at  our  post  to  stand, 

Till  grateful  to  thy  shrine  we  bring 
The  tribute  of  a  ransomed  land, — 

Which,  from  the  pestilential  chain 
Of  foul  Intemperance  gladly  free, — 

Shall  spread  its  annal  free  from  stain 
To  all  the  nations,  and  to  Thee. 


INTEMPERANCE  AT  SEA. 

"Again,  unto  the  wreck  they  came, 

Where  like  one  dead,  I  lay, 
And  a  ship  liny  small  had  strength  enough 

To  carry  me  away." 

HOWITT. 

THE  evils  of  intemperance  at  sea,  it  is  impossible  for 
any  pen  adequately  to  describe.  The  oaths,  the  quarrels, 
the  debasing  vices  that  it  occasions  among  sailors,  may 
in  some  measure  be  imagined  by  what  is  seen  on  land. 
But  the  narrow  limits  to  which  they  are  confined,  allow 
no  opportunity  of  concealment,  and  more  immediately 
extinguish  all  moral  sensibility.  There  are  no  dark  lanes, 
in  which  to  sleep  off  their  debauch, — no  home  to  which 
they  may  stagger,  and  in  the  misery  inflicted  on  wife  and 
children,  hide  awhile  their  sin  from  the  public  eye.  All 
is  open  and  shameless. 

But  the  sufferings  inflicted  on  passengers  by  the  in- 
temperance of  those  to  whom  they  have  intrusted  their 
property  and  lives, — the  wrecks  that  have  ensued  by  a 
helm  badly  steered,  or  wrong  orders  from  those  who  have 
tarried  over  the  bowl  until  the  storm  was  high — the  mul- 
titudes thus  torn  from  sorrowing  friends,  and  buried  in 
watery  graves,  can  never  be  known  or  told,  till  the  seas 
give  up  their  dead. 


INTEMPERANCE    AT    SEA.  153 

It  was  early  during  the  war  that  severed  the  United 
States  from  Great  Britain,  that  an  armed  vessel  sailed 
out  of  Boston.  The  day  before  Christmas  was  the  time 
fixed  for  her  departure;  and  though  some  hearts  were 
sad  at  not  being  able  to  keep  that  sacred  festival  with 
loved  ones,  seated  around  the  pleasant  household  board, 
yet  it  was  a  proud  sight,  when  she  spread  her  white  sails 
to  the  morning  sun,  and  steered  from  the  harbor  of 
Plymouth.  She  was  not  large,  but  strongly  built,  and 
balanced  herself  beautifully  amid  the  waves,  like  a  bird 
cutting  the  air.  She  carried  twenty  guns,  and  a  crew  of 
more  than  one  hundred,  with  provisions  for  a  cruise  of 
six  months. 

There  were  moistened  eyes,  and  a  waving  of  hand- 
kerchiefs from  the  shore,  as  she  weighed  anchor  and  de- 
parted. For  she  bore  as  goodly  a  company  of  bold  and 
skilful  seamen,  as  ever  braved  the  perils  of  the  deep. 
While  she  hovered  round  the  coast,  the  skies  became 
troubled,  and  the  north  wind  blowing  heavily,  brought  a 
rough  sea  into  the  bay.  Night  came  on  with  thick  dark- 
ness. The  strong  gale  that  buffeted  them  became  a  blast, 
and  the  blast  a  hurricane. 

Snow  drifted  through  the  clouds,  and  the  cold  grew 
exceedingly  severe.  The  vessel  was  tossed  by  the  mer- 
ciless waves,  until  she  struck  a  reef  of  rocks.  Beginning 
to  fill  with  water,  they  hasted  to  cut  away  her  masts. 
But  the  sea  rose  above  the  main  deck,  and  the  wild 
surges  swept  over  it. 


154  INTEMPERANCE    AT    SEA. 

Every  exertion  was  made  that  courage  could  prompt, 
or  hardihood  sustain ;  but  so  fearful  were  the  winds, 
and  so  piercing  the  cold,  that  the  stoutest  men  were 
unable  to  labor,  exposed  to  their  influence  but  a  short 
time  without  being  relieved  by  others.  When  they 
found  all  their  efforts  to  save  the  vessel  hopeless,  they 
thronged  together  upon  the  quarter-deck, — not  to  bewail 
their  hapless  condition,  neither  to  entreat  mercy  of  God, 
like  men  on  the  verge  of  eternity.  Unfortunately, 
they  had  got  access  to  the  stores  of  ardent  spirits,  and 
many  of  them  were,  even  then,  in  a  state  of  intoxica- 
tion. 

Insubordination  and  mutiny  ensued.  The  officers 
remained  clear-minded,  but  lost  all  authority  over  the 
sailors,  who  raved  around  them  like  madmen.  The  dark- 
ened sky,  the  raging  storm,  the  waves  breaking  against 
the  rocks,  and  threatening  to  ingulf  the  broken  vessel, 
and  the  half-frozen  beings  who  maintained  a  feeble  hold 
on  life,  breathing  imprecations  instead  of  prayers,  formed 
a  scene  truly  frightful. 

Some  of  the  inebriated  wretches  lay  in  disgusting 
stupidity, — others,  with  fiery  faces,  blasphemed  their 
Maker.  Some,  wild  with  delirium,  fancied  themselves  in 
palaces,  surrounded  by  luxury,  and  abused  the  imaginary 
servants,  who  refused  to  do  their  bidding.  Others,  amid 
the  beating  of  that  pitiless  tempest,  believed  themselves 
to  be  in  the  homes  which  they  were  never  more  to  see, 
and  with  hoarse  reproachful  voices,  asked  for  bread,  and 


INTEMPERANCE    AT    SEA.  155 

wondered  why  the  refreshing  water-draught  was  with- 
held from  them,  by  those  who  were  most  dear. 

A  few,  whose  worst  passions  alcohol  had  inflamed  to 
fiend-like  fury,  assaulted  all  who  came  in  their  way,  rais- 
ing their  shouts  of  defiance  above  the  roar  of  the  tempest. 
While  intemperance  was  displaying  itself  in  the  most  re- 
volting attitudes,  Death  began  his  work.  Every  hour, 
some  miserable  creature  fell  dead  upon  the  deck,  frozen 
stiff  and  hard,  in  the  extreme  wintry  cold.  Each  corpse, 
as  it  became  breathless,  was  dragged  to  the  heap  of  dead, 
that  there  might  be  more  room  for  the  living.  Those  who 
had  drank  most  freely,  were  the  first  to  perish. 

On  the  third  day  of  these  horrors,  some  boats  that  had 
boldly  ventured  from  the  harbor  of  Plymouth,  reached 
the  wreck,  amid  many  dangers  from  breakers  and  the 
storm.  The  hardy  mariners  were  horror-struck  at  the 
scene  that  presented  itself.  Corpses,  stiffened  into  every 
form  that  suffering  could  devise,  were  strewed  around. 
Some  were  piled  in  a  mass  together,  like  the  frozen  sol- 
diers, on  the  retreat  from  Moscow.  Others  sate  with 
heads  bent  to  their  knees ;  others,  in  their  dead  hands  ; 
grasped  the  ice-covered  ropes,  or  the  empty  spirit-cup, 
while  some,  in  a  posture  of  defiance,  or  defence,  glared 
like  the  sculptured  gladiator. 

Every  sign  of  life  was  earnestly  sought  for.  One  boy 
was  about  to  be  thrown  among  the  mass  of  dead,  when  it 
was  discovered  that  one  of  his  eyelids  faintly  trembled, 
and  he  was  saved.  The  survivors  were  borne  to  the 


156  INTEMPERANCE    AT    SEA. 

shore,  and  the  strangers  kindly  sheltered  and  nursed  by 
the  inhabitants,  until  they  could  be  removed  to  their  own 
homes.  It  was  found  that  only  a  small  band,  besides  the 
officers  of  the  vessel,  had  abstained  from  ardent  spirits. 
These  survived  the  hardships  of  the  storm  and  the  wreck, 
though  some  of  them  were  in  a  state  of  exhaustion. 

The  angel  of  Temperance,  like  the  Prophet  with  his 
censer,  literally  stood  "  between  the  living  and  the  dead, 
so  that  the  plague  was  stayed."  Some,  who  had  been  less 
deeply  intoxicated,  were  borne  to  the  land  alive,  but  died 
in  a  short  time.  Others,  after  long  sickness,  were  re- 
stored, but  with  impaired  strength,  or  mutilated  frames. 

When  the  tempest  subsided,  the  boats  again  approached 
the  wreck,  to  remove  the  dead.  What  a  solemn  sight, — 
as  under  a  clear,  wintry  sky,  they  slowly  bore  over  the 
heaving  waters,  the  bodies  of  those  who  had  so  recently 
parted  from  their  friends,  in  health  and  exulting  hope  ! 
Their  funeral  obsequies  were  mournful  beyond  descrip- 
tion. Nearly  one  hundred  bodies  were  placed  in  the 
little  church,  fixing  their  stony  immovable  eyes  upon  the 
beholder,  their  features  hardened  into  horrible  expressions 
of  the  last  mortal  agony.  The  aged  Pastor  fainted  at 
the  sight  of  this  terrible  congregation.  He  soon  recovered 
himself,  but  his  voice  was  mournful  and  tremulous,  as  he 
performed  the  last  sacred  services  of  religion. 

The  bodies  not  claimed  by  friends  for  separate  graves, 
were  interred  in  a  large  pit  on  the  south-east  side  of  the 
burial  ground.  And  after  that  generation  had  faded 


INTEMPERANCE    AT    SEA.  157 

away,  the  spot  was  still  pointed  out  to  strangers,  where 
the  perished  crew  of  that  lost  vessel  await  the  resurrec- 
tion. 

Near  by,  in  a  humble  abode,  might  have  been  seen  a 
pale-faced  widow,  with  her  young  daughter,  sedulously 
attending  the  couch  of  a  sufferer.  The  boy  lay  there, 
whose  trembling  eyelid  had  saved  him  on  the  wreck, 
among  the  dead. 

"  Mother !  it  was  you  who  taught  me  to  avoid  what- 
ever would  intoxicate.  Your  lessons  have  saved  my  life. 
When  my  poor  comrades  became  drunk  around  me,  it 
was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  protect  myself  from  them. 
Some  dared  me  to  fight,  and  struck  me.  Others  held 
strong  liquors  to  my  lips,  and  bade  me  drink.  My  throat 
was  burning,  and  my  tongue  parched  with  thirst.  But  I 
knew  if  I  drank,  I  must  lose  my  reason  like  them,  and 
blaspheme  Him  who  made  me. 

"  One  by  one  they  fell  down,  those  reeling  and  maddened 
people.  Even  now,  their  shouts  and  groans  ring  in  my 
ears.  It  was  in  vain  that  our  officers,  and  a  few  good 
men  among  us,  warned  them  of  the  fate  that  would  befall 
them,  and  tried  to  establish  order.  They  persisted  in 
swallowing  draught  after  draught,  until  they  grew  delir- 
ious, and  died  in  heaps. 

"  Our  sufferings  from  hunger  and  cold,  were  dreadful. 
After  my  feet  were  frozen,  but  before  I  lost  the  use  of 
my  hands,  I  saw  a  box  under  water,  among  fragments  of 
the  wreck.  I  tried  with  a  rope  to  bring  it  up,  hoping 


158  INTEMPERANCE    AT    SEA. 

that  it  might  contain  bread.  But  my  weakened  arms 
failed,  and  a  comrade  helped  me.  After  long  toil,  it  came 
within  our  reach,  and  we  succeeded  in  bursting  it  open. 
Alas !  there  was  no  bread  there,  only  a  few  bottles  of 
olive-oil.  Yet  for  these,  in  our  famished  condition  we 
were  thankful.  Now  and  then  we  moistened  our  lips 
with  a  few  drops  of  the  oil ;  and  even  found,  that  to 
swallow  a  small  quantity,  allayed  the  severe  gnawing 
pains  of  hunger. 

"  But  soon  my  comrade  died,  and  I  lay  beside  him, 
benumbed  and  helpless.  Then  the  roar  of  the  tempest 
lulled,  and  I  heard  strange  voices  as  if  in  a  dream,  and 
the  hurrying  feet  of  those  blessed  people,  who  had  dared 
every  danger  to  rescue  us.  They  carefully  wrapped  in 
blankets  all  who  were  able  to  speak,  or  whose  slightest 
motion  betrayed  life.  Almost  every  drunkard  was  among 
the  dead. 

"  And  I  was  so  exhausted  with  labor,  and  cold,  and 
want  of  food,  that  I  was  not  able  to  utter  a  word, 
or  stretch  a  finger  to  my  deliverers.  Again  and  again, 
they  passed  me,  where  I  lay  among  the  dead.  Again 
and  again,  they  bore  the  living  away  to  their  boats.  A 
terrible  dread  took  possession  of  me,  lest  I  should  be 
left  behind.  I  strained  every  nerve  and  muscle  to  speak, 
but  could  utter  no  sound.  The  effort  almost  stifled  my 
feeble  breath.  I  strove  to  lift  my  hand.  All  power  over 
the  muscles  had  forsaken  me.  It  was  like  some  awful 
vision. 


INTEMPERANCE    AT    SEA.  159 


"  Then  I  prayed  agonizingly  in  my  heart :  '  For  the 
sake  of  my  poor  mother  and  sister,  Oh  Lord,  save  me !' 
Methought  the  last  man  had  gone,  for  I  heard  no  longer 
any  footsteps.  Then  I  said.  '  Lord  Jesus,  receive  my 
spirit !' 

"  Ah !  was  there  not  something  like  a  warm  breath  on 
my  cheek  ?  Was  not  the  hand  of  a  human  being  laid 
upon  mine  ?  My  whole  soul  strove  and  shuddered  within 
me ;  but  my  body  was  immovable  as  marble.  A  voice 
said,  '  I  think  this  poor  lad  lives ; — one  of  his  eyelids 
trembles.'  Oh,  the  music  of  those  words  !  It  was  not  the 
trembling  eyelid,  but  your  lessons  of  temperance,  dear 
mother,  and  the  prayer  to  God,  that  saved  me." 

Then  the  loving  sister  ran  with  tears  to  embrace  him, 
and  the  widowed  mother,  bowing  her  head,  said, — 

"  I  thank  thee,  Merciful  Father,  who  hath  spared  my 
son,  to  be  the  comfort  of  my  age." 


DANGERS  OF  SEAMEN. 

THEY  roam  where  danger  dwells, 

Where  blasts  impetuous  sweep, 
Where  sleep  the  dead  in  watery  cells, 

Beneath  the  faithless  deep, — 
Where  tempests  threaten  loud 

To  whelm  the  shipwrecked  form  : — 
Show  them  a  sky  that  hath  no  cloud, 

A  port  above  the  storm. 

Beyond  the  Sabbath  bell, 

Beyond  the  house  of  prayer, 
Where  deafening  surges  madly  swell, 

Their  trackless  course  they  dare  : — 
Give  them  the  Book  Divine, 

That  full  and  perfect  chart ; 
That  beacon  'mid  the  foaming  brine, — 

That  pilot  of  the  heart. 

Where  sin  with  aspect  bold, 

And  fierce  temptations  urge, 
Their  wild  and  unwarn'd  course  they  hold, 

Rude  as  the  reckless  surge  : — 


DANGERS    OF    SEAMEN.  161 

Send  forth  the  Gospel's  power ! — 

That  pole-star  o'er  the  sea ; 
That  when  life's  storms  no  longer  lower, 

Heaven  may  their  haven  be. 


THE  STORM. 

'TWAS  a  wild  night. — 

November's  storm  was  out 
Upon  the  murky  hills,  and  at  its  stroke 
The  naked  forest  groaned. 

'Twas  a  wild  night — 

Yet  mid  the  conflict  of  the  howling  winds, 
The  mother's  quick  ear  caught  another  sound, 
Faint  though  it  was, — for  when  was  love,  like  hers, 
Deaf  to  its  wailing  child  ! 

With  flying  steps 

She  sought  a  distant  chamber.     There  her  son, 
Roused  by  the  thunder  of  the  elements 
From  his  sweet  dream,  inquir'd,  with  pallid  cheek, 
O'er  which  his  shining  curls  dishevell'd  swept, 
The  meaning  of  such  tumult. 

So  she  placed 

Her  lamp  upon  the  table,  and  sate  down 
Beside  his  little  bed. 

"  That  sound  you  hear, 
Like  a  hoarse  roaring,  is  the  swollen  brook 
Beating  against  the  stones.     For  sudden  rains 
Have  raised  it  brimming  to  its  slender  bridge, — 


THE    STORM.  163 


And  had  the  violets  that  you  love  so  well 

Not  hidden  from  the  frost,  they'd  all  been  drown'd 

With  their  young  baby  buds. — 

And  then  that  knock 

Against  the  rattling  casement,  that  is  sure 
The  stiff  old  cedar,  frightened  at  the  storm, 
Who  spreads  his  green  hands  o'er  the  window  panes, 
As  if  to  ask  for  help.     Those  whistling  tones, — 
Half  cry,  half  tune, — are  from  some  wandering  blast 
That  sweeps  our  chimney,  and  its  funnel  tall  • 
Maketh  an  organ  pipe." 

"  Oh,  mother  dear  ! 

Waking  so  suddenly,  I  scarce  could  think 
WThat  this  great  uproar  meant.     But  well  I  know 
God  rules  the  storm." 

"  Thou  dost  remember  right 
Thy  Sunday  lesson,  and  apply  it  well. 
But  here,  while  in  thy  nicely-curtained  crib 
With  downy  pillows  thou  art  nestled  warm, 
Like  a  young  birdling,  still  bethink  thee,  boy, 
Of  the  poor  traveller  'neath  the  chilling  rain  ; 
And  of  the  sailor  on  the  slippery  mast, 
And  of  the  wrecking  ship  amid  the  waves  ; 
And  thank  our  Bounteous  Father  in  your  prayer." 

"  Mother,  I  heard  the  story  of  a  man, 
One,  who  was  cruel  to  his  helpless  child, 
And  drove  his  wife  out  in  the  wintry  cold, — 


164 


THE    STORM. 


They  said  it  was  the  wine  and  SPIRIT  STORM 
Made  him  so  bad. 

Mother,  what  storm  was  that  ?' 

"  The  storm  that  may  be  kindled  in  ourselves, 
My  little  son,  by  strong  and  evil  drinks  ; 
Which  wake  a  wilder  tempest  in  the  breast 
Than  that  which  troubleth  nature. 

Then  the  son 

Respecteth  not  his  parents, — nor  the  wife 
Loveth  her  little  ones.     And  men  forget 
The  fear  of  God,  and  do  such  deeds  as  tears 
Can  never  wash  away. — 

The  glorious  sun 

Will  shine  again  as  bright  as  if  the  storm 
Had  never  been,  and  thou,  perchance,  may'st  see 
The  arch  of  radiant  colors  throw  its  tint 
Upon  the  passing  cloud.     But  that  dark  storm 
Of  fearful  passions,  hath  no  blessed  bow 
Of  promise  for  the  soul." 

"  I  will  not  be 

So  wicked,  mother,  as  to  drink  what  makes 
Such  tempests  in  the  bosom. — Mother,  dear  ! 
I  never  will." 

And  then  he  pressed  his  lip, 
Sobbing  with  earnestness,  upon  her  cheek, 
While  tenderly  she  said, — 


THE    STORM.  165 


"  Keep  thou  this  pledge, 
Oh  true,  and  tender  heart ! 

And  when  the  days 

Of  manhood  come,  and'thou  art  tempted  sore, 
Still  gird  thy  promise  to  a  faithful  breast, 
And  hold  thy  footing  firm. 

So  shalt  thou  bless, 
Even  in  such  dialect  as  angels  use, 
Thy  mother's  visit,  and  this  midnight  storm." 


THE  SAILOR'S  APPEAL. 

Ho  !  dwellers  on  the  stable  land, 

Of  danger  what  know  ye, 
Like  us  who  brave  the  whelming  surge, 

Or  trust  the  treacherous  sea  ? 

The  fair  trees  shade  you  from  the  sun, 

You  see  the  harvests  grow, 
And  breathe  the  fragrance  of  the  breeze 

When  the  first  roses  blow. 

You  slumber  on  your  beds  of  down, 
Close  wrapped,  in  chambers  warm, 

Lulled  only  to  a  deeper  dream 
By  the  descending  storm : — 

While  high  amid  the  slippery  shroud, 
We  make  our  midnight  path, — 

And  e'en  the  strongest  mast  is  bowed 
Beneath  the  tempest's  wrath. 

Yet  still,  what  know  ye  of  the  joy 
That  lights  our  ocean  strife, 


THE  SAILOR'S  APPEAL.  167 

When  on  its  way  our  gallant  ship 
Rides  like  a  thing  of  life  ? 

When  gayly  toward  the  wished-for  port 

With  favoring  wind  we  stand, 
Or  first  your  misty  line  descry, 

Hills  of  our  native  land  ! 

Know  ye  what  danger  waits  our  souls, 

When,  in  that  narrow  bound, 
The  fiend  Intemperance  fiercely  breathes 

His  fiery  breath  around  ? 

No  angel-comforters  are  near, 

Our  tempted  hearts  to  stay, — 
No  blessed  charities  of  home 

To  check  our  downward  way. 

There's  deadly  peril  in  our  path 

Beyond  the  wrecking  blast, — 
A  peril  that  may  reach  the  soul 

When  life's  short  voyage^  is  past. 

Send  us  your  Bibles  when  we  go 

To  dare  the  whelming  wave, — 
Your  men  of  peace,  to  teach  us  how 

To  meet  a  watery  grave. 


168  THE  SAILOR'S  APPEAL. 

And  Saviour !  thou  whose  foot  sublime 
The  foaming  surge  did  tread, — 

Whose  hand,  the  rash  disciple  drew 
From  darkness  and  the  dead, — 

Oh  !  be  our  Ark  when  floods  descend, 
When  thunders  shake  the  spheres, — 

Our  Ararat  when  tempests  end, 
And  the  green  earth  appears. 


THE  HARWOODS. 


1  'Tis  she  alone,  with  her  constant  heart, 
Can  see  all  the  idols  of  hope  depart, 
Yet  still  live  on.— and  smile,  and  bless 
Man  in  his  utmost  wretchedness." 

PROCTER. 


THE  flood  of  emigration  which  beats  against  the  shores 
of  the  United  States,  seems  to  have  no  ebb-tide.  From 
the  ices  of  the  Baltic, — from  the  dense  forests  of  Germa- 
ny,— from  the  weeping  Isle  of  the  shamrock,  exhalations 
gather,  hurrying  drops  aggregate,  streamlets  mingle,  and 
press  onward  with  a  rushing  sound.  The  young  West, 
like  some  broad  sea,  receives  them,  taking  no  more  note 
of  each  than  Ocean  of  its  tribute- waters. 

Here  and  there,  in  the  streets  of  our  cities,  the  tall, 
tasseled  cap  of  the  Pole,  the  rainbow  plaid  of  the  High- 
lander, or  the  thin  smoke  curling  from  the  Bavarian 
pipe,  gleam  for  a  moment,  to  be  dispersed  in  measureless 
distance,  or  merged  in  one  common  mass.  The  accents 
of  a  strange  language  may  indeed  continue  to  murmur 
through  a  generation  or  two,  but  dialects,  like  the  linea- 
ments of  national  character,  blend,  fade,  and  are  for- 
gotten. 

Amid  this  ceaseless  influx  of  foreign  material,  is  also 


170  THE    HARVVOODS. 


an  under-current  of  domestic  emigration ; — a  change,  a 
fluctuation,  a  fluttering  of  the  integral  parts.  This  ele- 
mental movement  and  strife,  tends  ever  towards  the  set- 
ting sun.  Yet  the  West  recedes  from  its  followers,  like 
the  horizon  from  the  pursuing  child.  Time  was,  and 
that  within  the  memory  of  the  living,  when  to  us,  the 
dwellers  in  New  England,  the  untrodden  wilds  of  Ohio 
were  counted  as  the  extreme  West.  Now,  the  stately 
cities  that  glitter  there,  fall  short  of  the  central  point  of 
the  empire. 

Where,  then,  is  the  West  ?  On  the  banks  of  the  father 
of  waters  ? — along  the  pictured  rocks  of  the  mighty  lake  ? 
— at  Illinois  ? — at  Iowa  ? — at  Wisconsin  ? — Scarcely  ! 
The  searchers  for  the  West,  like  the  gold  seekers  among 
the  settlers  of  Virginia,  still  analyze  yellow  earth  for  the 
invisible  and  ideal  good ; — pausing  only  amid  the  arid 
sands  of  Oregon,  or  on  the  sounding  shores  of  the 
Pacific. 

New  England,  the  fountain  of  these  internal  supplies, 
still  vigorously  sustains  this  drain  upon  her  vitality.  The 
farmer  who  has  many  sons, — if  the  homestead  be  too 
narrow,  confidently  points  out  to  them  a  place  at  the 
West.  Thither  speed  the  self-denying  missionary,  with 
his  Bible,  and  the  persevering  teacher  with  his  text-book, 
laboring  to  make  the  wilderness  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Perhaps,  thither  also  may  turn  the  briefless  lawyer,  to 
pour  his  philippics  from  the  stump,  and  carry  the  votes 
of  a  whole  country  by  his  eloquence.  The  broken  mer- 


THE    HARWOODS.  171 


chant  there  plants  himself,  changing  his  ledger  for  an 
axe,  and  making  the  trees  groan,  instead  of  his  creditors. 
Every  over-stocked  profession  finds  there  a  safety-valve. 
Those  who  are  discontented,  and  in  debt,  "  make  to 
themselves  a  captain,"  and  go  forth  to  a  more  attractive 
abode  than  the  cave  of  Adullam.  Lost  wealth  takes 
heart  and  looks  up,  where  are  none  richer  than  itself; 
wasted  health  fattens  and  grows  strong,  with  the  wild  ven- 
ison, and  the  toil  that  takes  it.  The  strong  passion  of 
wandering  becomes  satiated  and  tame,  amidst  the  bound- 
less prairies ;  and  forfeited  reputation,  and  even  flying 
guilt,  fear  no  reproach  amid  Texan  vales. 

From  the  trains  of  baggage -wagons  peep  forth  the 
faces  of  young  children ;  and  on  the  canal-boat  the  care- 
ful matron,  while  her  babe  sleeps,  plies  the  knitting- 
needles,  ever  steering  in  the  wake  of  the  westering  sun- 
beam. Not  many  years  since,  where  the  lofty  forests  of 
Ohio,  towering  in  unshorn  majesty,  cast  a  solemn  shadow 
over  the  deep  verdure  of  beautiful  and  ample  vales,  a 
small  family  of  emigrants  were  seen  pursuing  their  soli- 
tary way.  They  travelled  on  foot,  but  not  with  the 
aspect  of  mendicants,  though  care  and  suffering  were 
visibly  depicted  on  their  countenances.  The  man  walked 
first,  apparently  in  no  kind  or  compromising  mood.  The 
woman  carried  in  her  arms  an  infant,  and  aided  the 
progress  of  a  feeble  boy,  who  seemed  sinking  with  ex- 
haustion. An  eye  accustomed  to  scan  the  never- resting 
tide  of  emigration,  might  discern,  that  these  pilgrims 


172 


THE     HARWOODS. 


were  inhabitants  of  the  Eastern  States,  probably  retreat- 
ing from  some  species  of  adversity,  to  one  of  those 
imaginary  El  Dorados,  among  the  shades  of  the  far 
West,  where  it  is  fabled  that  the  evils  of  mortality  have 
found  no  place. 

James  Harwood,  the  leader  of  that  humble  group,  who 
claimed  from  him  the  charities  of  husband  and  of  father, 
halted  at  the  report  of  a  musket,  and  while  he  entered  a 
thicket  to  discover  whence  it  proceeded,  the  weary  and 
sad-hearted  mother  sate  down  upon  the  grass.  Bitter 
were  her  reflections  during  that  interval  of  rest  among 
the  wilds  of  Ohio.  The  pleasant  New  England  village 
from  which  she  had  just  emigrated,  and  the  peaceful 
home  of  her  birth,  rose  up  to  her  view,  where,  but  a  few 
years  before,  she  had  given  her  hand  to  one,  whose  un- 
kindness  now  strewed  her  path  with  thorns.  By  constant 
and  endearing  attentions,  he  had  won  her  youthful  love, 
and  the  two  first  years  of  their  union  promised  happiness. 
Both  were  industrious  and  affectionate,  and  the  smiles  of 
their  inf;int  in  his  evening  sports,  or  his  slumbers,  more 
than  repaid  the  labors  of  the  day. 

But  a  change  became  visible.  The  husband  grew  in- 
attentive to  his  business,  and  indifferent  to  his  fireside. 
He  permitted  debts  to  accumulate  in  spite  of  the  economy 
of  his  wife,  and  became  more  and  more  offended  at  her 
remonstrances.  She  strove  to  hide,  even  from  her  own 
heart,  the  vice  that  was  gaining  the  ascendency  over 
him,  and  redoubled  her  exertions  to  render  his  home 


THE    HAKWOODS.  173 


agreeable.  But  too  frequently  her  efforts  were  of  no 
avail,  or  contemptuously  rejected.  The  death  of  her 
beloved  mother,  and  the  birth  of  a  second  infant,  con- 
vinced her,  that  neither  in  sorrow  nor  in  sickness,  could 
she  expect  sympathy  from  him  to  whom  she  had  given 
her  heart,  in  the  simple  faith  of  confiding  affection.  They 
became  miserably  poor,  and  the  cause  was  evident  to 
every  observer.  In  this  distress  a  letter  was  received 
from  a  brother,  who  had  been  for  several  years  a  resident 
in  Ohio,  mentioning  that  he  was  induced  to  remove 
farther  westward,  and  offering  them  the  use  of  a  tenement 
which  his  family  would  leave  vacant,  and  a  small  portion 
of  cleared  land,  until  they  might  be  able  to  become  pur- 
chasers. 

Poor  Jane  listened  to  this  proposal  with  gratitude. 
She  thought  she  saw  in  it  the  salvation  of  her  husband. 
She  believed  that  if  he  were  divided  from  his  intemperate 
companions,  he  would  return  to  his  early  habits  of  indus- 
try and  virtue.  The  trial  of  leaving  native  and  endeared 
scenes,  from  which  she  would  once  have  recoiled,  seemed 
as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  prospect  of  his  refor- 
mation, and  returning  happiness.  Yet,  when  all  their 
few  effects  were  transmuted  into  the  waggon  and  horse, 
which  were  to  convey  them  to  a  far  land,  and  the  scant 
and  humble  necessaries  which  were  to  sustain  them  on 
their  way  thither -; — when  she  took  leave  of  brother  and 
sisters,  with  their  households ; — when  she  shook  hands 
with  the  friends  whom  she  had  loved  from  her  cradle, 


174  THE    HARWOODS. 


and  remembered  that  it  might  be  for  the  last  time  ; — and 
when  the  hills  that  encircled  her  native  village,  faded 
into  the  faint  blue  outline  of  the  horizon,  there  came  over 
her  such  a  desolation  of  spirit,  such  a  foreboding  of  evil, 
as  she  had  never  before  experienced.  She  blamed  her- 
self for  these  feelings,  and  repressed  their  indulgence. 

The  journey  was  slow  and  toilsome.  The  autumnal 
rains,  and  the  state  of  the  roads  were  against  them.  The 
few  utensils  and  comforts  which  they  carried  with  them, 
were  gradually  abstracted  and  sold.  The  object  of  this 
traffic  could  not  be  doubted : — the  effect  was  but  too 
visible  in  his  conduct.  She  reasoned, — she  endeavored 
to  persuade  him  to  a  different  course.  But  anger  was 
the  only  result.  Even  when  he  was  not  too  far  stupefied 
to  comprehend  her  remarks,  his  deportment  was  exceed- 
ingly overbearing  and  arbitrary.  He  felt  that  she  had 
no  friends  to  protect  her  from  insolence,  and  was  entirely 
in  his  own  power;  while  she  was  compelled  to  realize 
that  it  was  a  power  without  generosity,  and  that  there 
is  no  tyranny  so  perfect  as  that  of  a  capricious  and 
alienated  husband. 

As  they  approached  the  close  of  their  distressing  jour- 
ney, the  roads  became  worse,  and  their  horse  utterly 
failed.  He  had  been  scantily  provided  for,  as  the  intem- 
perance of  his  owner  had  taxed  and  impoverished  every- 
thing, for  its  own  vile  indulgence.  Jane  wept  as  she 
looked  upon  the  dying  animal,  and  remembered  his 
faithful  and  ill-requited  services. 


THE    HARWOODS.  175 


The  unfeeling  exclamation  with  which  her  husband 
abandoned  him  to  his  fate,  fell  painfully  upon  her  heart, 
adding  another  proof  of  the  extinction  of  his  sensibilities, 
in  the  loss  of  that  pitying  kindness  for  the  animal  crea- 
tion, which  exercises  a  silent  and  salutary  guardianship 
over  our  higher  and  better  sympathies.  They  were  now 
approaching  within  a  short  distance  of  the  termination 
of  their  journey,  and  their  directions  had  been  very  clear 
and  precise.  But  his  mind  became  so  bewildered,  and 
his  heart  so  perverse,  that  he  persisted  in  choosing  by- 
paths of  underwood  and  tangled  weeds,  under  the  pre- 
tence of  seeking  a  shorter  route.  This  increased  and 
prolonged  their  fatigue,  but  no  entreaty  of  his  wearied 
wife  was  regarded.  Indeed,  so  exasperated  was  he  at 
her  expostulations,  that  she  sought  safety  in  silence.  The 
little  boy  of  four  years  old,  whose  constitution  had  been 
feeble  from  his  infancy,  became  so  feverish  and  distressed, 
as  to  be  unable  to  proceed.  The  mother,  after  in  vain 
soliciting  aid  and  compassion  from  her  husband,  took  him 
in  her  arms,  while  the  youngest,  whom  she  had  previ- 
ously carried,  and  who  was  unable  to  walk,  clung  to  her 
shoulders.  Thus  burdened,  her  progress  was  slow  and 
painful.  Still,  she  was  enabled  to  hold  on ;  for  the 
strength  that  nerves  a  mother,  toiling  for  her  sick  child, 
is  from  God.  She  even  endeavored  to  press  on  more 
rapidly  than  usual,  fearing,  that  if  she  fell  behind,  her 
husband  would  tear  the  sufferer  from  her  arms,  in  some 
paroxysm  of  his  savage  intemperance. 


176  THE    HARWOODS. 


Their  road  during  the  day,  though  approaching  the 
small  settlement  where  they  were  to  reside,  lay  through 
a  solitary  part  of  the  country.  The  children  were  faint 
and  hungry ;  and  as  the  exhausted  mother  rested  upon 
the  grass,  trying  to  nurse  her  infant,  she  drew  from  her 
bosom  the  last  piece  of  bread,  and  held  it  to  the 
parched  lips  of  the  feeble  child.  But  he  turned  away 
his  head,  and  with  a  scarcely  audible  moan,  asked  for 
water.  Feelingly  might  she  sympathize  in  the  distress 
of  the  poor  outcast  from  the  tent  of  Abraham,  who  laid 
her  perishing  son  among  the  shrubs,  and  sat  down  a  good 
way  off,  saying,  "  Let  me  not  see  the  death  of  the  child." 
But  this  Christian  mother  was  not  in  the  desert,  nor  in 
despair.  She  looked  upward  to  Him,  who  is  the  Refuge 
of  the  forsaken,  and  the  Comforter  of  those  whose  spirits 
are  cast  down. 

The  sun  was  drawing  towards  the  west,  as  the  voice  of 
James  Harwood  was  heard,  issuing  from  the  forest,  at- 
tended by  another  man  with  a  gun,  and  some  birds  at  his 
girdle. 

"  Wife,  will  you  get  up  now,  and  come  along  ?  we  are 
not  a  mile  from  home.  Here  is  John  Williams,  who  went 
from  our  part  of  the  country,  and  says  he  is  our  next- 
door  neighbor." 

Jane  received  his  hearty  welcome  with  a  thankful 
spirit,  and  rose  to  accompany  them.  The  kind  neighbor 
took  the  sick  boy  in  his  arms,  saying, — 


THE    HARWOODS.  177 


"  Harwood,  here,  take  the  baby  from  your  wife.  We 
do  not  let  our  women  bear  all  the  burdens,  in  Ohio." 

James  was  ashamed  to  refuse,  and  reached  his  hands 
towards  the  child.  But  accustomed  to  his  neglect,  or 
unkindness,  it  hid  its  face,  crying,  in  the  maternal  bosom. 

"  You  see  how  it  is  ;  she  makes  the  children  so  cross 
that  I  never  have  any  comfort  of  them.  She  chooses  to 
carry  them  herself,  and  always  will  have  her  own  way 
in  everything." 

"  You  have  come  to  a  new-settled  country,  friends," 
said  John  Williams,  "  but  it  is  a  good  country  to  get  a 
living  in.  The  crops  of  corn  and  wheat  are  such  as  you 
never  saw  in  New  England.  Our  cattle  live  in  clover, 
and  the  cows  give  us  cream  instead  of  milk.  There  is 
plenty  of  game  to  employ  our  leisure,  and  venison  and 
wild  turkey  do  not  come  amiss  now  and  then,  on  a  far- 
mer's table.  Here  is  a  short  cut  I  can  show  you,  though 
there  is  a  fence  or  two  to  climb.  James  Harwood,  I  shall 
like  well  to  talk  with  you  about  old  times,  and  old  friends 
down  East.  But  why  don't  you  help  your  wife  over  the 
fence  with  her  baby  ?" 

"  So  I  would,  but  she  is  so  sulky.  She  has  not  spoken 
a  word  to  me  all  day.  I  always  say,  let  such  folks  take 
care  of  themselves,  till  their  mad  fit  is  over." 

A  cluster  of  log-cabins  now  met  their  view  through  an 
opening  in  the  forest.  They  were  pleasantly  situated  in 
the  midst  of  an  area  of  cultivated  lands.  A  fine  river, 
surmounted  by  a  rustic  bridge,  formed  of  the  trunks  of 

8* 


178  THE    HARWOODS. 


trees,  cast  a  sparkling  line  through  the  deep,  unchanged 
autumnal  verdure. 

"Here  we  live,"  said  their  guide,  "a  hard-working, 
contented  people.  That  is  your  house,  which  has  no 
smoke  curling  up  from  the  chimney.  It  may  not  be  quite 
so  genteel  as  some  you  have  left  behind  in  the  old  States, 
but  it  is  about  as  good  as  any  in  the  neighborhood.  I'll 
go  and  call  my  wife  to  welcome  you.  Right  glad  will 
she  be  to  see  you,  for  she  sets  great  store  by  folks  from 
New  England." 

The  inside  of  a  log-cabin,  to  those  not  habituated  to  it, 
presents  but  a  cheerless  aspect.  The  eye  needs  time  to 
accustom  itself  to  the  rude  walls  and  floors,  the  absence 
of  glass  windows,  and  doors  loosely  hung  upon  leather 
hinges.  The  exhausted  woman  entered,  and  sank  down 
with  her  babe.  There  was  no  chair  to  receive  her.  In 
the  corner  of  the  room  stood  a  rough  board  table,  and  a 
low  frame  resembling  a  bedstead.  Other  furniture  there 
was  none.  Glad,  kind  voices  of  her  own  sex,  recalled  her 
from  her  stupor.  Three  or  four  matrons,  and  several  bloom- 
ing young  faces,  welcomed  her  with  smiles.  The  warmth 
of  reception  in  a  new  colony,  and  the  substantial  services 
by  which  it  is  manifested,  put  to  shame  the  ceremonious 
and  heartless  professions,  which,  in  a  more  artificial  state 
of  society,  are  sometimes  dignified  with  the  name  of 
friendship. 

As  if  by  magic,  what  had  seemed  almost  a  prison, 
assumed  a  different  aspect,  under  the  ministry  of  active 


THE    HARWOODS.  179 


benevolence.  A  cheerful  flame  rose  from  the  ample 
fireplace ;  several  chairs,  and  a  bench  for  the  children  ap- 
peared ;  a  bed,  with  comfortable  coverings,  concealed  the 
shapelessness  of  the  bedstead,  and  viands  to  which  they 
had  long  been  strangers,  were  heaped  upon  the  board. 
An  old  lady  held  the  sick  boy  tenderly  in  her  arms, 
who  seemed  to  revive,  as  he  saw  his  mother's  face  bright- 
en ;  and  the  infant,  after  a  draught  of  fresh  milk,  fell 
into  a  sweet  and  profound  slumber.  One  by  one,  the 
neighbors  departed,  that  the  wearied  ones  might  have  an 
opportunity  of  repose.  John  Williams,  who  was  the  last 
to  bid  good-night,  lingered  a  moment  ere  he  closed  the 
door,  and  said, — 

"  Friend  Harwood,  here  is  a  fine,  gentle  cow,  feeding 
at  your  door ;  and  for  old  acquaintance  sake,  you  and 
your  family  are  welcome  to  the  use  of  her  for  the  present, 
or  until  you  can  make  out  better." 

When  they  were  left  alone,  Jane  poured  out  her  grati- 
tude to  her  Almighty  Protector,  in  a  flood  of  joyful 
tears.  Kindness,  to  which  she  had  recently  been  a 
stranger,  fell  as  balm  of  Gilead  upon  her  wounded 
spirit. 

"  Husband,"  she  exclaimed  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart, 
"  we  may  yet  be  happy." 

He  answered  not,  and  she  perceived  that  he  heard  not. 
He  had  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  in  a  sleep  of 
stupefaction,  was  dispelling  the  fumes  of  inebriety. 

This  new  family  of  emigrants,  though  in  the  deepest 


180  THE    HARWOODS. 


poverty,  were  sensible  of  a  degree  of  satisfaction  to  which 
they  had  long  been  strangers.  The  difficulty  of  procur- 
ing ardent  spirits  in  the  small  and  isolated  community, 
promised  to  be  the  means  of  establishing  their  peace. 
The  mother  busied  herself  in  making  their  humble  tene- 
ment neat  and  comfortable,  while  her  husband,  as  if 
ambitious  to  earn  in  a  new  residence,  the  reputation  he 
had  forfeited  in  the  old,  labored  diligently  to  assist  his 
neighbors  in  gathering  their  harvest,  receiving  in  pay- 
ment such  articles  as  were  needed  for  the  subsistence  of 
his  household.  Jane  continually  gave  thanks  in  her 
prayers  for  this  great  blessing  ;  and  the  hope  she  per- 
mitted herself  to  indulge  of  his  permanent  reformation, 
imparted  unwonted  cheerfulness  to  her  brow  and  de- 
meanor. The  invalid  boy  seemed  to  gather  healing  from 
his  mother's  smiles ;  for  so  great  was  her  power  over 
him  since  sickness  had  rendered  his  dependence  complete, 
that  his  comfort,  and  even  his  countenance,  were  a  faith- 
ful reflection  of  her  own.  Perceiving  the  degree  of  her 
influence,  she  endeavored  to  use  it,  as  every  religious 
parent  should,  for  his  spiritual  benefit.  She  supplicated 
that  the  pencil  which  was  to  write  upon  his  soul,  might 
be  guided  from  above.  She  spoke  to  him  in  the  tender- 
est  manner  of  his  Father  in  Heaven,  and  of  His  will 
respecting  little  children.  She  pointed  out  His  goodness 
in  the  daily  gifts  that  sustain  life,  in  the  glorious  sun  as 
he  came  forth  rejoicing  in  the  east,  in  the  gently-falling 
rain,  the  frail  plant,  and  the  dews  that  nourish  it.  She 


THE    HARVVOODS. 


181 


reasoned  with  him  of  the  changes  of  nature,  till  he  loved 
even  the  storm,  and  the  mighty  thunder,  because  they 
came  from  God.  She  repeated  to  him  passages  of 
Scripture  with  which  her  memory  was  stored  ;  and  sang 
hymns  until  she  perceived  that,  if  he  was  in  pain,  he 
complained  not,  if  he  might  but  hear  her  voice.  She 
made  him  acquainted  with  the  life  of  the  blessed  Re- 
deemer, and  how  he  called  young  children  to  his  arms, 
though  the  disciples  forbade  them.  And  it  seemed  as  if 
a  voice  from  Heaven  urged  her  never  to  desist  from 
cherishing  this  tender  and  deep-rooted  piety  ; — because 
like  the  flower  of  grass  he  must  soon  pass  away.  Yet 
though  it  was  evident  that  the  seeds  of  disease  were  in 
his  system,  his  health  at  intervals  seemed  to  be  improv- 
ing; and  the  little  household  partook,  for  a  time,  the 
blessings  of  tranquillity  and  contentment. 

But  let  none  flatter  himself,  that  the  dominion  of  vice 
is  suddenly,  or  easily  broken.  It  may  seem  to  relax  its 
grasp,  and  to  slumber, — but  the  victim  who  has  long 
worn  its  chain,  if  he  would  utterly  escape,  and  triumph 
at  last,  must  do  so  in  the  strength  of  Omnipotence. 
This,  James  Harwood  never  sought.  He  had  begun  to 
experience  that  prostration  of  spirits  which  attends  the 
abstraction  of  an  habitual  stimulant.  His  resolution  to 
recover  his  lost  character,  was  not  proof  against  this 
physical  inconvenience.  He  determined  at  all  hazards  to 
gratify  his  depraved  appetite.  He  laid  his  plans  delib- 
erately, and  with  the  pretext  of  making  some  arrange- 


182  THE    HARWOODS. 


ments  about  the  wagon,  which  had  been  left  broken  on 
the  road,  departed  from  his  home.  His  stay  was  pro- 
tracted beyond  the  appointed  limit,  and  at  his  return,  his 
sin  was  written  on  his  brow,  in  characters  too  strong  to 
be  mistaken.  That  he  had  also  brought  with  him  some 
hoard  of  intoxicating  liquor,  to  which  to  resort,  there 
remained  no  room  to  doubt.  Day  after  day,  did  his 
shrinking  household  witness  the  alternations  of  causeless 
anger,  and  brutal  tyranny.  To  lay  waste  the  comfort  of 
his  wife,  seemed  his  paramount  object.  By  constant 
contradiction  and  misconstruction,  he  strove  to  distress 
her,  and  then  visited  her  sensibilities  upon  her  as 
sins.  Had  she  been  obtuse  by  nature,  or  indifferent 
to  his  welfare,  she  might  with  greater  ease  have  borne 
the  cross.  But  her  youth  was  nurtured  in  tenderness, 
and  education  had  refined  her  susceptibilities,  both  of 
pleasure  and  pain.  She  could  not  forget  the  love  he  had 
once  manifested  for  her,  nor  prevent  the  chilling  contrast 
from  filling  her  soul  with  anguish.  She  could  not  resign 
the  hope,  that  the  being  who  had  early  evinced  correct 
feelings,  and  noble  principles  of  action,  might  yet  be 
won  back  to  that  virtue  which  had  rendered  him  worthy 
of  her  affections.  Still,  this  hope  deferred,  was  sickness 
and  sorrow  to  the  heart.  She  found  the  necessity  of 
deriving  consolation,  and  the  power  of  endurance,  wholly 
from  above.  The  tender  invitation  by  the  mouth  of 
a  prophet,  was  balm  to  her  wounded  soul, — "As  a 
woman  forsaken  and  grieved  in  spirit,  and  as  a  wife  of 


THE    HAUWOODS.  183 


youth,  when  thou  wast  refused,  have  I  called  thee,  saith 
thy  God." 

So  faithful  was  she  in  the  discharge  of  the  difficult 
duties  that  devolved  upon  her, — so  careful  not  to  irritate 
her  husband,  by  reproach  or  gloom, — that  to  a  casual 
observer,  she  might  have  appeared  to  be  confirming  the 
doctrine  of  the  ancient  philosopher,  that  happiness  is  in 
exact  proportion  to  virtue.  Had  he  asserted,  that  virtue 
is  the  source  of  all  that  happiness  which  depends  upon 
ourselves,  none  could  have  controverted  his  position. 
But  to  a  woman, — a  wife, — a  mother,  how  small  is  the 
portion  of  independent  happiness !  She  has  woven  the 
tendrils  of  her  soul  around  many  props.  Each  revolv- 
ing year  renders  their  support  more  necessary.  They 
cannot  waver,  or  warp,  or  break,  but  she  must  tremble 
and  bleed. 

There  was  one  modification  of  her  husband's  persecu- 
tions, which  the  fullest  measure  of  her  piety  could  not 
enable  her  to  bear  unmoved.  This  was  unkindness  to 
her  feeble  and  suffering  boy.  It  was  at  first  commenced 
as  the  surest  mode  of  distressing  her.  It  opened  a  direct 
avenue  to  her  lacerated  heart-strings.  What  began  in 
perverseness,  seemed  to  end  in  hatred,  as  evil  habits 
often  create  perverted  principles.  The  wasted  and  wild- 
eyed  invalid,  shrank  from  his  father's  glance  and  foot- 
step, as  from  the  approach  of  a  foe.  More  than  once 
had  he  taken  him  from  the  little  bed,  which  maternal 


184  THE    HAIIWOOD3. 


care  had  provided  for  him,  and  forced  him  to  go  forth  in 
the  cold  of  the  winter  storm. 

"  I  mean  to  harden  him,"  said  he.  "  All  the  neigh- 
bors know  that  you  make  such  a  fool  of  him,  that  he  will 
never  be  able  to  get  a  living.  For  my  part,  I  wish  I  had 
never  been  called  to  the  trial  of  supporting  a  useless 
boy,  who  pretends  to  be  sick,  only  that  he  may  be  coaxed 
by  a  silly  mother." 

On  such  occasions,  it  was  in  vain  that  the  mother 
attempted  to  protect  the  child.  She  might  neither  shel- 
ter him  in  her  bosom,  nor  control  the  frantic  violence  of 
the  father.  Harshness  and  the  agitation  of  fear,  deepened 
a  disease  which  might  else  have  yielded.  The  timid  boy, 
in  terror  of  his  natural  protector,  withered  away  like  a 
blighted  flower.  It  was  of  no  avail  that  friends  remon- 
strated with  the  unfeeling  parent,  or  that  hoary-headed 
men  warned  him  solemnly  of  his  sins.  Intemperance 
had  destroyed  his  respect  for  man,  and  his  fear  of  God. 

Spring,  at  length,  emerged  from  the  shades  of  that 
heavy  and  bitter  winter.  But  its  smile  brought  no  glad- 
ness to  the  declining  child.  Consumption  fed  upon  his 
vitals,  and  his  nights  were  restless,  and  full  of  pain. 

"  Mother,  I  wish  I  could  smell  the  violets  that  grew 
upon  the  green  bank  by  our  dear  old  home." 

"  It  is  too  early  for  violets,  my  child.  But  the  grass 
is  beautifully  green  around  us,  and  the  birds  sing  sweetly, 
as  if  their  hearts  were  full  of  praise." 

"  In  my  dreams  last  night,  I  saw  the  clear  waters  of 


THE     HARWOODS.  185 


the  brook,  that  ran  by  the  bottom  of  my  little  garden. 
I  wish  I  could  taste  them  once  more.  And  I  heard  such 
music  too,  as  used  to  come  from  that  white  church  among 
the  trees,  where  every  Sunday,  the  happy  people  meet 
to  worship  God." 

The  mother  knew  that  the  hectic  fever  had  been  long 
increasing,  and  now  detected  such  an  unearthly  bright- 
ness in  his  eye,  that  she  feared  his  intellect  wandered. 
She  seated  herself  on  his  low  bed,  and  bent  over  him. 
He  lay  silent  for  some  time. 

"  Do  you  think  my  father  will  come  ?" 

Dreading  the  agonizing  agitation,  which  in  his  parox- 
ysms of  coughing  and  pain,  he  evinced  at  the  sound  of 
his  father's  well-known  step,  she  answered, — 

"  I  think  not,  love.     You  had  better  try  to  sleep." 

"  Mother,  I  wish  he  would  come.  I  do  not  feel  afraid 
now.  Perhaps  he  would  let  me  lay  my  cheek  to  his 
once  more,  as  he  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  babe  in  my 
grandmother's  arms.  I  should  be  glad  to  say  goodby 
to  him,  before  I  go  to  my  Saviour." 

Gazing  intently  in  his  face,  she  saw  the  work  of  the 
destroyer  in  lines  too  plain  to  be  mistaken. 

"My  son,  my  dear  son, — say,  Lord  Jesus,  receive  my 
spirit." 

"  Mother,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile  upon  his  ghastly 
features,  "  He  is  ready.  I  desire  to  go  to  Him.  Hold 
the  baby  to  me,  that  I  may  kiss  her.  That  is  all.  Row 


186  THE    HARWOODS. 


sing  to  me, — and  oh !  wrap  me  closer  in  your  arms,  for  I 
shiver  with  cold." 

He  clung,  with  a  death  grasp,  to  that  bosom  which 
had  long  been  his  sole  earthly  refuge. 

"  Sing  louder,  dear  mother,  a  little  louder.  I  cannot 
hear  you." 

A  tremulous  tone,  as  of  a  broken  harp,  rose  above  her 
grief  to  comfort  the  dying  child.  One  sigh  of  icy  breath 
was  upon  her  cheek  as  she  joined  it  to  his, — one  shudder, 
and  all  was  over.  She  held  the  body  long  in  her  arms, 
as  if  fondly  hoping  to  warm  and  revivify  it  with  her 
breath.  Then  she  stretched  it  upon  its  bed,  and  kneel- 
ing beside  it,  hid  her  face  in  that  grief,  which  none  but 
mothers  feel.  It  was  a  deep  and  sacred  solitude,  alone 
with  the  dead, — nothing  save  the  soft  breathing  of  the 
sleeping  babe,  fell  upon  that  solemn  pause.  Then,  the 
silence  was  broken  by  a  wail  of  piercing  sorrow.  It 
ceased,  and.  a  voice  arose, — a  voice  of  supplication  for 
strength  to  endure,  as  "  seeing  Him  who  is  invisible." 
Faith  closed  what  was  begun  in  weakness.  It  became  a 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  to  Him,  who  had  released  the 
dove-like  spirit  from  its  prison-house  of  pain,  that  it 
might  taste  the  peace,  and  mingle  in  the  melody,  of 
heaven. 

She  arose  from  the  orison,  and  bent  calmly  over  her 
dead.  The  thin,  placid  features  wore  a  smile,  as  when 
he  had  spoken  of  Jesus.  She  composed  the  shining  locks 
around  the  pure  forehead,  and  gazed  long,  on  what  was 


THE    HARWOOD3.  187 


to  her  beautiful.  Tears  had  vanished  from  her  eyes,  and 
in  their  stead  was  an  expression  almost  sublime,  as  of 
one  who  had  given  an  angel  back  to  God. 

The  father  entered  carelessly.  She  pointed  to  the 
pale,  immovable  brow. 

"  See  !  he  suffers  no  longer." 

He  drew  near,  and  looked  on  the  dead  with  surprise 
and  sadness.  A  few  natural  tears  forced  their  way,  and 
fell  on  the  face  of  the  first-born,  who  was  once  his  pride. 
The  memories  of  that  moment  were  bitter.  He  spoke 
tenderly  to  the  emaciated  mother,  and  she,  who  a  short 
time  before  was  raised  above  the  sway  of  grief,  wept  like 
an  infant,  as  those  few  affectionate  tones  touched  the 
sealed  fountains  of  other  years. 

Neighbors  and  friends  visited  them,  desirous  to  con- 
sole their  sorrow,  and  attended  them  when  they  com- 
mitted the  body  to  the  earth.  There  was  a  shady  and 
secluded  spot,  which  they  had  consecrated  by  the  burial 
of  their  few  dead.  Thither  that  whole  little  colony  were 
gathered,  and  seated  on  the  fresh-springing  grass,  listened 
to  the  holy,  healing  words  of  the  inspired  volume.  It 
was  read  by  the  oldest  man  in  the  colony,  who  had  him- 
self often  mourned.  As  he  bent  reverently  over  the 
sacred  page,  there  was  that  on  his  brow  which  seemed 
to  say,  "  This  hath  been  my  comfort  in  my  affliction." 
Silver  hairs  thinly  covered  his  temples,  and  his  low  voice 
was  modulated  by  feeling,  as  he  read  of  the  frailty  of  man, 
withering  like  the  flower  of  grass  before  it  groweth  up ; 


188  THE    HARWOODS. 


and  of  His  majesty,  in  whose  sight  "  a  thousand  years 
are  as  yesterday  when  it  is  past,  and  as  a  watch  in  the 
night."  He  selected  from  the  words  of  that  compassion- 
ate One,  who  "gathereth  the  lambs  with  His  arm,  and 
carrieth  them  in  His  bosom ;"  who,  pointing  out  as  an 
example  the  humility  of  little  children,  said,  "  except  ye 
become  as  one  of  these,  ye  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,"  and  who  calleth  all  the  "  weary  and  heavy-laden 
to  come  unto  Him,  that  He  may  give  them  rest." 

The  scene  called  forth  sympathy,  even  from  manly 
bosoms.  The  mother,  worn  with  watching  and  weari- 
ness, bowed  her  head  down  to  the  clay  that  concealed 
her  child.  And  it  was  observed  with  gratitude  by  that 
friendly  group,  that  the  husband  supported  her  with  his 
arm,  and  mingled  his  tears  with  hers. 

He  returned  from  this  funeral  in  much  mental  distress. 
His  sins  were  brought  to  remembrance,  and  reflection 
was  misery.  For  many  nights,  sleep  .was  disturbed  by 
visions  of  his  neglected  boy.  Sometimes  he  imagined 
that  he  heard  him  coughing  from  his  low  bed,  and  felt 
constrained  to  go  to  him,  in  a  strange  disposition  of 
kindness,  but  his  limbs  were  unable  to  obey  the  dictates 
of  his  will.  Then  he  would  see  him  pointing  with  a  thin, 
dead  hand,  to  the  dark  grave,  or  beckoning  him  to  follow 
to  the  unseen  world.  Conscience  haunted  him  with 
terror,  and  many  prayers  from  pious  hearts  arose,  that  he 
might  now  be  led  to  repentance.  The  venerable  man 
who  had  read  the  Bible  at  the  burial  of  his  boy,  coun- 


THE    HARWOODS.  189 


selled  and  entreated  him  with  the  earnestness  of  a  father, 
to  yield  to  the  warning  voice  from  above,  and  to  "  break 
off  his  sins  by  righteousness,  and  his  iniquities  by  turn- 
ing unto  the  Lord." 

There  was  a  change  in  his  habits  and  conversation,  and 
his  friends  trusted  it  would  be  permanent.  She,  who 
above  all  others  was  interested  in  the  result,  spared  no 
exertion  to  win  him  back  to  the  way  of  virtue,  and  to 
soothe  his  heart  into  peace  with  itself,  and  obedience  to 
his  Maker.  Yet  was  she  doomed  to  witness  the  full 
force  of  grief,  and  of  remorse,  upon  intemperance,  only  to 
see  them  utterly  overthrown  at  last.  The  reviving  goodness 
with  whose  indications  she  had  solaced  herself,  and  even 
given  thanks  that  her  beloved  son  had  not  died  in  vain, 
was  transient  as  the  morning  dew.  Habits  of  industry 
which  had  begun  to  spring  up,  proved  rootless.  The 
dead,  and  his  cruelty  to  the  dead,  were  alike  forgotten. 
Disaffection  to  the  chastened  being,  who,  against  hope, 
still  hoped  for  his  salvation,  resumed  its  dominion.  The 
friends  who  had  alternately  reproved  and  encouraged 
him,  were  convinced  that  their  efforts  had  been  of  no 
avail.  Intemperance,  "  like  the  strong  man  armed,"  took 
possession  of  a  soul,  that  lifted  no  cry  for  aid  to  the 
Holy  Spirit,  and  girded  on  no  weapon  to  resist  the 
destroyer. 

Summer  passed  away,  and  the  anniversary  of  their 
arrival  at  the  colony  returned.  It  was  to  Jane  Harwood 
a  period  of  sad  and  solemn  retrospection.  The  joys  of 


190  THE    HARWOODS. 


early  days,  and  the  sorrows  of  maturity  passed  in  review 
before  her,  and  while  she  wept,  she  questioned  her  heart, 
what  had  been  its  gain  from  a  Father's  discipline,  or 
whether  it  had  sustained  that  greatest  of  all  losses, — the 
loss  of  its  afflictions. 

She  was  alone  at  this  season  of  self-communion.  The 
absences  of  her  husband  had  become  more  frequent  and 
protracted.  A  storm,  which  feelingly  reminded  her  of 
those  which  had  often  beat  upon  them,  when  homeless  and 
weary  travellers,  had  been  raging  for  nearly  two  days. 
To  this  cause  she  imputed  the  unusually  long  stay  of  her 
husband.  Through  the  third  night  of  his  absence,  she 
lay  sleepless,  listening  for  his  steps.  Sometimes  she 
fancied  she  heard  shouts  of  laughter,  for  the  moods  in 
which  he  returned  from  his  revels,  was  various  : — but 
it  was  only  the  shriek  of  the  tempest.  Then  she  trem- 
bled, as  if  some  ebullition  of  his  frenzied  anger  rang  in 
her  ears.  It  was  the  roar  of  the  hoarse  wind  through 
the  forest.  All  night  long  she  listened  to  these  sounds, 
and  hushed  and  sang  to  her  affrighted  babe.  Unre- 
freshed,  she  arose,  and  resumed  her  morning  labors. 

Suddenly,  her  eye  was  attracted  by  a  group  of  neigh- 
bors, coming  up  slowly  from  the  river.  A  dark  and 
terrible  foreboding  oppressed  her.  She  hastened  out  to 
meet  them.  Coming  towards  her  house  was  a  female 
friend  agitated  and  tearful,  who,  passing  her  arm  around 
her,  would  have  spoken. 


THE    HARWOODS.  191 


"  Oh  !  you  come  to  bring  me  evil  tidings  !  I  pray  you, 
let  me  know  the  worst." 

The  object  was  indeed  to  prepare  her  mind  for  a  fearful 
calamity.  The  body  of  her  husband  had  been  found, 
drowned,  as  was  supposed,  during  the  darkness  of  the 
preceding  night,  in  attempting  to  cross  the  bridge  of 
logs,  which  had  been  partially  broken  by  the  swollen 
waters.  Utter  prostration  of  spirit  came  over  the  deso- 
late mourner.  Her  energies  were  broken,  and  her  heart 
withered.  She  had  sustained  the  privations  of  poverty 
and  emigration, — the  burdens  of  unceasing,  unrequited 
care,  without  a  murmur.  She  had  laid  her  first-born  in 
the  grave  with  resignation,  for  Faith  had  heard  the 
Redeemer's  blessed  invitation,  "  Suffer  the  little  child  to 
come  unto  me." 

She  had  seen  him  in  whom  her  heart's  young  affections 
were  garnered  up,  become  a  "  persecutor  and  injuri- 
ous,"— a  prey  to  vice  the  most  disgusting  and  destructive. 
Yet  she  had  borne  up  under  all.  One  hope  remained 
with  her  as  an  "  anchor  of  the  soul,"  the  hope  that  he 
might  yet  repent,  and  be  reclaimed.  She  had  persevered 
in  her  complicated  and  self-denying  duties,  with  that 
charity  which  "  beareth  all  things, — believeth  all  things, — 
endureth  all  things." 

But  now,  he  had  died  in  his  sin.  The  deadly  leprosy 
which  had  stolen  over  his  heart,  could  no  more  be 
"purged  by  sacrifice  or  offering  forever."  She  knew 
not,  that  a  single  prayer  for  mercy,  had  preceded  the 


192  THE     II  AR WOODS. 


soul  on  its  passage  to  the  bar  of  the  High  Judge. 
There  were  bitter  dregs  in  this  cup  of  grief,  which 
she  had  never  before  wrung  out.  . 

Again  the  sad-hearted  community  assembled  in  their 
humble  cemetery.  A  funeral  in  an  infant  colony  touches 
sympathies  of  an  almost  exclusive  character.  It  is  as  if 
a  large  family  suffered.  One  is  smitten  down,  whom 
every  eye  knew,  every  voice  saluted.  To  bear  along  the 
corpse  of  the  strong  man  through  the  fields  which  he  had 
sown,  and  to  cover  motionless  in  the  grave,  that  arm  which 
it  was  expected  would  reap  the  ripened  harvest ;  awakens 
a  thrill,  deep  and  startling,  in  the  breasts  of  those  who 
wrought  by  his  side,  during  "the  burden  and  heat  of 
the  day."  To  lay  the  mother  on  her  pillow  of  clay, 
whose  last  struggle  with  life,  was  perchance  to  resign 
the  hope  of  one  more  brief  visit  to  the  land  of  her 
fathers, — whose  heart's  last  pulsation  might  have  been  a, 
prayer,  that  her  children  should  return,  and  grow  up 
within  the  shadow  of  the  school-house,  and  the  church 
of  God,  is  a  grief  in  which  none  save  emigrants  may  par- 
ticipate. To  consign  to  their  narrow,  noteless  abode,  both 
young  and  old, — the  infant,  and  him  of  hoary  hairs,  with- 
out the  solemn  knell,  the  sable  train,  the  hallowed  voice 
of  the  man  of  God,  giving  back  in  the  name  of  his  fellow- 
Christians,  the  most  precious  roses  of  their  pilgrim  path, 
and  speaking  with  divine  authority  of  Him,  who  is  the 
"  resurrection  and  the  life,"  adds  desolation  to  that  weep- 
ing, with  which  man  goeth  down  to  his  dust. 


THE    HARWOODS.  193 


But  with  heaviness  of  an  unspoken  and  peculiar  nature, 
was  this  victim  of  vice  borne  from  the  home  that  he 
had  troubled,  and  laid  by  the  side  of  that  meek  child,  to 
whose  tender  years,  he  had  been  an  unnatural  enemy. 
There  was  sorrow  among  all  who  stood  around  his 
grave,— and  it  bore  features  of  that  sorrow  which  is 
without  hope. 

The  widowed  mourner  was  not  able  to  raise  her  head 
from  the  bed,  when  the  bloated  remains  of  her  unfortu- 
nate husband  were  committed  to  the  dust.  Long  and 
severe  sickness  ensued,  and  in  her  convalescence,  a  letter 
was  received  from  her  brother,  inviting  her  and  her  child 
to  an  asylum  under  his  roof,  and  appointing  a  period 
to  come  and  conduct  them  on  their  homeward  journey. 
With  her  little  daughter,  the  sole  remnant  of  her  wrecked 
heart's  wealth,  she  returned  to  her  kindred.  It  was  with 
emotions  of  deep  and  painful  gratitude,  that  she  bade 
farewell  to  the  inhabitants  of  that  infant  settlement,  whose 
kindness,  through  all  her  adversities,  had  never  failed. 
And  when  they  remembered  her  example  of  uniform 
patience  and  piety,  and  the  saint-like  manner  in  which 
she  had  sustained  her  burdens,  and  cherished  their  sym- 
pathies, they  felt  as  though  a  tutelary  spirit  had  departed 
from  among  them. 

In  the  home  of  her  brother,  she  educated  her  daughter 
to  industry,  and  that  contentment,  which  virtue  teaches. 
Restored  to  those  friends  with  whom  the  morning  of  life 
had  passed,  she  shared  with  humble  cheerfulness  the 


194  THE    HARWOODS. 


comforts  that  earth  had  yet  in  store  for  her ;  but  in  the 
cherished  sadness  of  her  perpetual  widowhood,  in  the 
bursting  sighs  of  her  nightly  orison,  might  be  traced  a 
sacred,  deep-rooted  sorrow, — the  memory  of  her  erring 
husband  and  the  miseries  of  unreclaimed  intemperance. 


THE  WEEPING  WIFE. 

I  SEE  a  weeping  wife,— 

What  grieves  her  to  the  heart  ? 
Has  Death  amid  her  treasured  joys 

Launched  forth  a  fatal  dart  ? 

No ! — "Tis  a  living  woe 

That  makes  her  eye  so  red, — 

The  father  of  her  children  bears 
The  plague-spot  on  his  head. 

There's  cursing  on  his  tongue, — 
There's  madness  in  his  brain  ; — 

He  yieldeth  to  a  demon's  will, 
And  darkly  clanks  his  chain. 

Haste ! — stir  his  blinded  soul 

With  kindly  words  and  strong, — 

And  snatch  him  from  the  yawning  pit 
To  which  he  reels  along. 

Nor  let  your  pitying  cares, 
Your  earnest  labors  cease, 


196  THE    WEEPING    WIFE. 

Till  clothed,  and  in  his  own  right  mind, 
He  dwells  in  love  and  peace. 

So,  from  the  heart  and  home, 

Once  desolate  and  drear, 
Your  names,  shall  on  the  household  prayer 

Tio  up,  with  grateful  tear. 


THE  MOURNFUL  VISIT. 

I  TURNED  me  toward  a  cottage,  round  whose  porch 
Climbed  the  gay  woodbine,  and  whose  quiet  roof 
Seemed  through  its  leafy  canopy  to  smile 
A  welcome  to  the  guest. 

My  heart  was  light 

As  near  this  rural  haunt  I  drew,  to  greet 
An  early  friend,  with  whom  the  joyous  sport 
Mid  neighboring  schoolmates, — all  our  lessons  done, 
Had  oft  been  shared. 

Beside  the  open  door 

Two  cherub-children  gambol'd.     One  displayed 
In  vivid  miniature,  the  father's  face, — 
Such  as  in  memory's  casket  still  it  dwelt, — 
The  high,  bold  forehead,  and  full,  hazel  eye, 
Gentle,  yet  ardent.     On,  with  winning  smile 
He  led  his  fairy  sister,  murmuring  low 
In  varied  tones  of  playful  tenderness, — 
Or  sometimes  bending  o'er  her  fragile  form 
In  mimic  guardianship,  with  such  a  grace, 
That  to  my  heart  I  pressed  him,  as  I  said, 
"  Show  me  thy  father." 


198  THE    MOURNFUL    VISIT. 


To  a  couch  he  led, 

Where  lay  a  man.     I  could  not  call  him  friend, — 
So  chang'd  !     Had  sickness  marr'd  the  noble  brow, 
Once  wont  to  beam  with  intellectual  light, 
And  glow  with  glad  benevolence  ? 

Ah,  no  !— 

For  then  I  might  have  poured  a  soothing  balm 
Of  sympathy,  and  raised  the  sufferer's  heart 
To  God,  the  Healer.— But  I  knew  too  well 
The  coloring  of  the  seal  that  Vice  had  stamped 
On  form  and  feature. 

And  she,  too,  was  there, 
Who  at  the  altar  gave  her  hallowed  vow, 
In  all  the  trusting  confidence  of  love, 
To  this,  her  chosen  one.     On  her  young  cheek 
There  was  a  cankering  grief,  and  the  pale  trace 
Of  beauty's  rose-bud  blighted. 

When  I  spake, 

Recalling  memories  of  our  early  days, — 
Where  in  the  paths  of  science  and  of  peace 
We  trod  with  many  a  friend,  his  bloated  lips 
Swelled  out  with  stupid  laughter,  and  such  words 
As  flippant  folly  utters. 

At  the  voice 

Of  those  young  creatures  playing  near  his  bed, 
His  fiery  eyeballs  flashed,  and  brutal  threats 
Appalled  their  innocent  hearts, — till  that  fair  girl 
From  whom  intemperance  thus  had  reft  the  guide 


THE    MOURNFUL    VISIT.  199 

That  Nature  gave,  in  terror,  hid  her  face 
Deep  in  her  mother's  robe. 

I  would  have  spoke 

In  bitter  blame  of  that  most  poisonous  cup, 
And  of  the  vice  that  seared  a  noble  soul, — 
But  that  I  saw  within  the  sunken  eye 
Of  that  long-suffering  wife,  the  pleading  tear 
Of  silent,  fond  forbearance.     So  all  thought 
Of  sternness,  breathed  itself  away  in  sighs. — 
But  as  I  went  my  way,  I  mourned  the  lot 
Of  that  sad  widowhood,  and  orphanage, 
That  hath  nor  hope  nor  pity. 

Sad,  I  roamed 

Along  the  grassy  vale,  and  when  no  eye 
Beheld  me,  gave  free  passage  to  the  tear 
And  prayer  of  bitter  anguish. 

Oh,  my  God ! 

Without  whose  aid  the  proudest  strength  of  man, 
And  fairest  promise,  are  but  broken  reeds, — 
So  shield  us  from  temptation,  and  from  sin 
Deliver  us, — that  we  unscathed  may  rise 
Our  earthly  trials  o'er,  where  Virtue  dwells 
Fast  by  her  Sire,  and  tastes  a  deathless  joy. 


FOR  A  JUVENILE  TEMPERANCE  SOCIETY. 

OLD  History  tells  of  many  a  land 

That  bent  beneath  Oppression's  yoke, 

Till,  with  firm  heart  and  fearless  hand, 
The  fetter  and  the  sway  were  broke. 

But  we  a  sterner  toil  essay, — 

We  struggle  with  a  tyrant  foe, 
Whose  poisoned  arrows  pierce  the  soul, 

And  lay  uncounted  thousands  low. 

The  warrior's  bleeding  breast  may  close, 
Though  wounded  by  the  keenest  steel, 

But  he,  who  feels  that  direr  fang, 
What  art  can  soothe  ?  what  balsam  heal  ? 

Yet  courage  !  onward  !  He  whose  grace 
Hath  been  the  endanger'd  hero's  shield, 

Can  bless  the  stripling's  sling  and  stone, 
And  make  the  mail-clad  giant  yield. 

So,  when  by  this  dread  yoke  enslaved 
No  more  our  native  realm  shall  be, 

How  high  will  swell  the  tuneful  strain 
Of  Freedom's  noblest  jubilee. 


LOST  HOPES. 


'  This  child,  so  lovely  and  so  cherub-like, 
Say,  must  he  know  remorse  ?  must  passion  come, 
Passion  in  all,  or  any  of  its  shapes 
To  cloud  and  sully  what  is  now  so  pure  ?" 

ROGERS. 


THE  deep  love  that  settles  on  an  only  child,  is  peculiar, 
and  may  be  perilous.  Spread  over  a  wider  surface,  it 
respires  freely,  and  inhales  health  ;  but,  thus  concen- 
trated, becomes  absorbing,- — perhaps  morbid,  or  idola- 
trous. 

If  the  faults  of  its  object  pierce  through  the  folds  and 
mazes  of  blinding  partiality,  they  cause  paternal  affection 
unutterable  anguish.  But  more  frequently  they  are  per- 
ceived hi  part,  or  not  at  all.  The  desire  that  others  should 
be  equally  blinded,  or  inspired  with  a  similar  admiration, 
sometimes  becomes  a  demand,  and  ends  in  disappoint- 
ment. Dread  of  losing  its  sole  treasure,  magnifies  the 
slightest  exposure,  and  sees  in  trivial  indispositions  the 
symptoms  of  fatal  disease. 

How  touchingly  is  the  utter  desolation  of  such  affec- 
tionate hope  depicted  in  the  epitaph  upon  an  only  daugh- 
ter, in  Ashbourne  Church,  England,  whose  little  effigy 
upon  its  marble  mattress,  mingling  the  restlessness  of 

9* 


202  LOST    HOPES. 


pain,  with  the  meek  smile  of  patience,  has  drawn  tears 
from  many  a  traveller. 

"  We  trusted  our  all  to  this  frail  bark  :— 
And  the  wreck  was  total. 


I  was  not  in  safety ;  neither  had  I  rest ;  neither  was  I  quiet : 
Yet  this  trouble  came." 

Still,  to  the  excess  or  perversion  of  this  heaven-im- 
planted affection,  there  are  beautiful  exceptions,  reflecting 
honor  both  on  the  self-denial  of  the  parent,  and  the 
well-balanced  nature  of  the  child.  Gentle,  shrinking 
spirits  there  are,  needing  to  be  soothed  and  fortified  by 
an  unwavering,  exclusive  tenderness  : — grateful,  generous 
ones  also,  that  do  not  abuse  it.  The  indulgence  that 
hardens  others  into  selfishness,  renders  them  more  amia- 
ble, and  disposed  to  show  the  same  kindness  with  which 
they  have  themselves  been  nurtured.  The  deprivation 
of  fraternal  and  sisterly  intercourse,  often  creates  in  the 
earlier  periods  of  life  a  loneliness,  which,  acting  like  a 
perpetual  discipline,  leads  to  humility  and  piety.  So 
that  the  position  of  an  only  child, — in  itself  a  severe 
ordeal, — may  either  ripen  superior  excellence,  or  stifle  its 
indications  in  selfishness,  disappointment,  and  sorrow. 

In  a  small  and  neatly-furnished  parlor,  might  be  seen 
a  group  of  three  persons, — the  central  one  being  a  child, 
who  occupied  the  hazardous  situation  which  we  have 
contemplated.  Through  his  thick  curls,  the  mother's 
fingers  often  moved  with  delight,  arranging  them  in  the 


LOST    HOPES.  203 


most  becoming  attitudes  around  the  neck,  or  the  well- 
formed  forehead.  The  father,  though  what  is  called  a 
matter-of-fact  man,  found  a  new  and  growing  affection 
mingling  with  the  cares  of  the  day,  and  was  never  better 
pleased  at  returning  from  his  business  at  night,  than  to 
be  entertained  with  the  smart  sayings  of  his  boy,  which 
were  treasured  up  for  that  purpose. 

Still,  these  parents  were  more  judicious  in  the  training 
of  their  child  than  many  in  similar  situations,  and  though 
very  indulgent,  it  would  appear  that  this  indulgence  had 
not  been  especially  injurious.  Frank  Edwards  was  af- 
fectionate, and  not  disposed  to  take  an  undue  advan- 
tage of  kindness.  He  was  cheerful  in  his  attendance  at 
school,  and  regular  in  returning  home,  where  something 
to  give  him  pleasure  was  sedulously  prepared.  He  was 
generally  satisfied  to  do  what  his  parents  desired,  and 
this  good  conduct  gave  to  his  naturally  handsome  fea- 
tures, an  agreeable  expression ;  so  that  the  neighbors 
remarked  they  had  seldom  seen  an  only  child  so  obedient, 
and  with  such  good  manners. 

Among  those  who  took  a  deep  interest  in  the  boy, 
was  an  unmarried  uncle,  from  whom  he  was  named.  As 
he  resided  near,  scarcely  an  evening  passed  without  a 
visit  from  him.  He  interested  himself  in  all  that  con- 
cerned Frank,  and  the  most  expensive  gifts  at  birth-days, 
and  New- Year,  were  always  from  his  uncle.  On  hoh'day 
afternoons,  when  the  weather  was  favorable,  his  uncle 
usually  came,  with  his  fine  pair  of  ponies,  on  which  they 


204  LOST    HOPES. 


took  equestrian  exercise  together.  Such  was  his  absorb- 
ing interest  in  his  namesake,  that  the  parents  informed 
him  of  all  their  movements  respecting  him,  and  observed 
that  he  was  always  pleased  to  give  advice  respecting  his 
education. 

One  of  his  favorite  propositions  was,  that  he  should 
be  sent  away  from  home.  This,  the  parents  steadily 
resisted  ;  arguing,  that  their  own  schools  bore  so  high  a 
reputation,  that  many  children  from  distant  towns  were 
sent  to  be  recipients  of  their  privileges. 

"  All  this  may  be  very  true,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  yet 
he  ought  to  go  from  home,  to  make  him  manly.  He  is 
brought  up  too  much  like  a  girl.  Here,  I  see  him  put- 
ting his  arm  around  his  mother's  neck,  or  sitting  with  his 
hand  in  hers,  perfectly  childish,  you  know.  How  can  he 
ever  be  fit  to  bear  his  part  among  men,  cossetted  up  in 
this  way  ?" 

These  opinions  being  communicated  to  Frank,  made 
him  constrained  in  the  presence  of  his  uncle.  He  learned 
to  repress  the  expression  of  his  affectionate  feelings,  from 
fear  of  ridicule ;  and  lest  he  should  not  be  considered 
manly,  by  one  whose  good  opinion  he  valued. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Edwards,  one  evening,  "my 
brother  has  made  a  distinct  proposal,  that  Frank  should 
be  sent  to  a  celebrated  scholastic  institution  in  a  distant 
city,  for  two  years,  before  he  enters  college;  all  the 
expenses  of  which  he  engages  to  defray." 

"  I  pray  you  not  to  listen  to  him.     Our  boy  is  doing 


LOST     HOPES.  205 


well  here.  We  cannot  tell  how  it  will  be  with  him, 
when  he  is  far  away, — perhaps  exposed  to  bad  example." 

"  I  think  as  you  do,  with  regard  to  that.  Besides,  I 
should  be  lost  without  him,  when  I  come  from  the  store, 
in  the  evening.  But  brother  gives  me  no  peace.  If  we 
do  not  cross  him  in  this  matter,  he  will  be  very  likely  to 
make  Frank  his  heir.  You  know  he  is  rich,  and  my 
possessions  are  very  moderate.  I  think  we  ought  to 
make  a  sacrifice  of  our  feelings,  for  the  sake  of  his 
future  good." 

"There  are  other  kinds  of  good,  besides  the  gain  of 
money,  that  I  covet  for  our  child,"  said  the  mother,  her 
eyes  filling  with  tears ;  "  and  losses,  for  which  all  the 
wealth  in  the  world  cannot  pay." 

But  she  was  not  slow  in  perceiving  that  her  husband 
had  already  consented  to  this  arrangement, — and  the 
brother  entering  soon  after,  confirmed  it.  She  felt  that 
longer  opposition  was  fruitless,  yet  was  still  moved  to 
say,  with  an  unwonted  warmth  and  emphasis, — 

"My  heart  is  full  of  misgivings.  While  my  son  is  by 
this  fireside,  I  know  that  he  is  not  in  bad  company. 
When  he  is  removed  from  my  sight  and  influence,  how- 
can  I  know  this  ?  I  have  reason  to  think  that  he  does 
not  neglect  his  studies,  and  he  is  always  happy  with 
me." 

"  That  is  the  trouble,  sister ;  you  make  him  altogether 
too  happy.  Remember,  he  is  an  only  child, — every- 
body can  see  that.  He  has  got  to  live  in  the  world,  as 


206  LOST    HOPES. 


well  as  the  rest  of  us.  Yet  what  does  he  know  of  the 
world  ?  Your  husband  is  much  away,  occupied  with  his 
business,  and  it  is  almost  a  proverb,  that  boys  brought 
up  by  women,  are  good  for  nothing." 

"  Brother,  if  he  is  an  only  child,  I  think  he  has  not 
been  indulged  to  his  hurt.  Is  not  his  home  a  safe  one  ? 
Is  not  his  school  a  good  one  ?  Is  he  not  making  respecta- 
ble progress  ?  Is  he  not  in  good  habits  ?  Can  you  give 
assurance  that  a  change  will  not  be  for  the  worse  ?  Do 
you  know  certainly,  that  his  principles  will  be  strong  to 
resist  evil  ?" 

The  mother  argued  in  vain.  She  was  alternately 
argued  with  and  soothed.  All  her  objections  were  re- 
solved into  natural  reluctance  to  resign  the  solace  of  her 
son's  company  ;  and  as  the  father  had  consented,  she  was 
enforced  to  consent  also. 

Frank  had  arrived  at  an  age  when  the  desire  of 
seeing  new  places,  and  making  new  acquaintances,  was 
alluring.  So  he  did  not  heighten  the  pain  of  his  mother, 
by  any  unwillingness  to  depart.  In  the  preparations  for 
his  wardrobe,  and  supply  of  books,  which  were  on  an 
unusually  liberal  scale,  he  took  much  interest,  and  could 
not  avoid  boasting  a  little  to  his  old  companions  of  his 
brilliant  prospects. 

But  when  the  last  trunk  was  locked,  his  spirits  quailed. 
Seated  between  his  father  and  mother,  and  expecting 
every  moment  the  arrival  of  the  stage-coach,  the  tears 
rushed  so  fast  to  his  eyes,  and  he  felt  such  a  suffocating 


LOST    HOPES.  207 


sensation  in  his  throat,  that  he  could  scarcely  heed  their 
parting  counsel. 

At  the  sound  of  the  wheels,  stopping  at  the  door,  he 
would  fain  have  thrown  himself  upon  his  mother's  neck 
and  wept.  But  his  uncle,  who  was  to  accompany  him, 
leaped  from  the  vehicle,  and  came  in.  So  he  busied 
himself  in  arranging  his  parcels,  and  after  shaking  hands 
courageously  with  his  parents,  said,  as  he  rushed  from 
the  house, — 

"  Good  by  ! — good  by ! — You  shall  hear  from  me,  as 
soon  as  I  get  there." 

He  dared  not  look  back,  until  the  roof  of  his  home,  and 
the  trees  that  shaded  it,  were  entirely  out  of  sight.  For 
he  knew  that  if  he  trusted  himself  with  another  glimpse, 
he  should  burst  into  tears, — and  feared  that  his  uncle 
would  shame  him  by  the  appellation  of  "  Miss  Fanny," 
before  strangers. 

In  the  large  school  that  he  entered,  everything  seemed 
new  and  strange.  He  found  more  trials  of  temper,  and 
privations  of  comfort,  than  he  had  anticipated.  He  went 
with  an  intention  to  make  himself  distinguished  by  schol- 
arship. But  there  were  many  older  and  more  advanced 
than  himself,  and  he  did  not  exhibit  the  perseverance 
necessary,  in  such 'circumstances,  to  insure  success. 

He  also  suffered  from  that  sinking  loneliness  of  heart, 
which  an  indulged  child  feels,  when  first  exiled  from  the 
sympathies  of  home.  In  the  headaches,  to  which,  from 
childhood,  he  had  been  occasionally  subject,  he  sadly 


208  LOST    HOPES. 


missed  maternal  nursing  and  tenderness.  But  he  would 
not  acknowledge  home-sickness,  or  complain  of  indispo- 
sition, lest  it  should  not  be  manly ;  and  having  a  good 
temper,  became  gradually  a  favorite  with  his  new  asso- 
ciates. 

Everything  went  on  well,  until  his  room-mate  was 
changed,  and  a  careless,  immoral  boy,  placed  in  this 
intimate  connection.  At  length,  it  was  proved  that  he 
had  not  the  moral  courage  to  say  no,  when  tempted  to 
evil, — and  a  sad  change  in  his  deportment  became  evi- 
dent. He  had  not  firmness  enough  to  reprove  his  com- 
panion for  what  he  knew  to  be  wicked, — or  steadfastly  to 
resist  what  his  conscience  disapproved. 

It  was  not  long  ere  he  began  to  waste  his  time,  and 
neglect  the  appointed  lessons.  Fortified  by  bad  example, 
he  scorned  the  censure  that  followed,  and  learned  to 
ridicule,  in  secret,  the  instructors  whom  he  should  have 
loved.  Foolish  and  hurtful  books,  engrossed  and  cor- 
rupted the  minds  of  those  thoughtless  comrades, — and 
there  they  were,  making  themselves  merry  with  what 
they  should  have  shunned,  while  their  distant  relatives 
supposed  them  diligent  in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. 

Months  passed  on,  and  the  vacation  approached. 
Every  day  was  counted  by  the  anxieus  mother.  His 
room  was  put  in  perfect  order,  and  some  articles  of  furni- 
ture added,  which  it  was  thought  would  please  him. 
His  little  library  was  arranged  to  make  the  best  appear- 
ance, and  his  minerals  newly  labelled,  and  placed  in  their 


LOST    HOPES.  209 

respective  compartments.  Some  of  his  toys  she  removed 
to  her  own  cabinet,  for  she  said,  "  They  will  be  too  child- 
ish for  him  now  ; — but  I  love  to  keep  them,  for  they 
remind  me  of  him,  when  he  just  began  to  walk  and  to 
speak,  and  was  always  so  happy."  His  favorite  articles 
of  food  were  not  forgotten,  and  as  the  time  of  his  arrival 
drew  near,  she  busied  herself  in  their  preparation,  with, 
that  delight  in  which  only  the  fond  maternal  heart  can 
partake. 

When  the  loved  one  came,  his  uncle  exclaimed  with 
exultation,  "  How  improved  ! — how  manly  !"  He  had, 
indeed,  gained  much  in  stature,  and  promised  to  possess 
a  graceful,  well-proportioned  form.  But  those  who  scru- 
tinized his  countenance  and  manner,  might  be  led  to 
doubt  whether  every  change  had  been  for  the  better,  or 
whether  the  added  manliness  might  not  have  been  pur- 
chased at  too  great  a  cost.  Simple  gratifications  no 
longer  contented  him.  He  seemed  to  require  for  him- 
self a  lavish  expenditure.  He  ceased  to  ask  pleasantly 
for  the  things  that  he  desired,  or  to  express  gratitude  for 
them ;  but  said  churlishly  through  his  shut  teeth,  with 
half-averted  face, — 

"  I  want  this,  or  that.  Other  boys  have  all  they  wish. 
I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  not." 

His  mother  was  still  more  alarmed  at  the  habits  of 
reserve  and  concealment  which  he  had  contracted.  For- 
merly, he  was  accustomed  to  impart  freely  to  her,  all 
that  concerned  him.  Now,  she  could  not  but  feel  that 


210  LOST    HOPES. 


she  was  shut  out  from  his  confidence,  and  fear  that 
her  influence  over  him  was  irrecoverably  lost. 

Still,  she  remitted  no  effort  or  device,  in  which  the 
maternal  heart  is  so  fruitful,  to  reinstate  herself  in  his 
affections.  Sometimes,  she  was  flattered  by  a  brighten- 
ing hope ;  then  he  started  aside,  like  a  deceitful  bow. 
His  first  vacation  was,  in  these  respects,  a  model  of 
those  that  followed ; — and  the  two  last  years  at  school 
passed  away,  with  little  intellectual  gain,  and  great  moral 
loss. 

At  his  entrance  into  college  he  was  exposed  to  greater 
temptations,  and  still  less  inclined  to  repel  them.  Let 
no  parent  flatter  himself,  that  it  will  be  well  with  a  son 
thus  situated,  unless  he  possesses  firm  principles,  and  is 
willing  diligently  to  labor  in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. 
Good  talents,  and  good  temper  alone,  will  not  save  him. 
The  first,  without  industry,  are  unfruitful ;  and  the  sun- 
shine of  the  latter  may  be  clouded  by  immediate  self- 
reproach. 

We  will  not  follow  Frank  Edwards,  through  the  haunts 
of  folly  and  intemperance  where  his  ruin  was  consummated. 
His  letters  to  his  affectionate  parents  were  few,  and  brief. 
Those  to  his  uncle  were  more  frequent,  because  on  him 
the  supply  of  his  purse  depended.  That  gentleman  was 
heard  to  say,  with  a  smile  of  somewhat  indefinite  char- 
acter, that  "  truly,  he  spent  money  like  a  man."  It  was 
supposed,  however,  that  in  the .  course  of  a  year  or  two, 
he  might  have  become  dissatisfied  with  the  manly  expenses 


LOST    HOPES.  211 


of  his  nephew,  as  he  ceased  to  boast  of  this  proof  of  his 
virility. 

Though  Frank  was  ignobly  contented  with  the  lowest 
grade  in  scholarship,  he  had  still  a  latent  ambition  to  be 
distinguished  in  some  way  or  other.  So  he  was  fond  of 
speaking  of  his  "  rich,  old-bachelor  uncle,"  and  saying 
that,  without  doubt,  he  should  be  his  heir.  His  mad 
expenditure  was  praised  as  liberality ;  and  he  called  a 
fine,  noble-hearted  fellow,  by  the  gay  companions  who 
walked  with  him  in  the  way  to  destruction. 

Early  in  the  third  year  of  his  collegiate  course,  he 
came  home  in  ill  health.  He  found  fault  with  the  laws 
of  the  Institution,  and  ridiculed  its  officers.  He  said  it 
was  impossible  to  gain  a  good  education  there,  if  one 
applied  himself  ever  so  closely  to  his  studies.  In  short, 
he  blamed  every  person,  but  himself.  He  had  left 
college  in  disgrace,  and  debt,  with  neither  the  disposition 
or  ability  to  return.  His  uncle,  who  had  certainly  great 
reason  to  be  offended,  told  him  that  he  need  have  no 
further  expectations  from  him ;  for  unless  the  whole 
course  of  his  life  was  changed,  he  should  choose  some 
more  worthy  recipient  of  his  bounty,  and  find  some  heir 
to  his  estate,  who  would  not  dishonor  his  name. 

The  sad,' and  mortified  father,  took  the  youth  to  his 
own  counting-house.  He  enforced  on  him  the  necessity 
of  doing  something  for  his  support.  But  he  had  no 
habits  of  application,  and  despised  the  routine  of  business, 
and  the  confinement  that  it  imposed.  His  red,  and  bloated 


212  LOST    HOPES. 


face  revealed,  but  too  truly,  the  vice  to  which  he  was 
enslaved.  As  he  passed  in  the  street,  he  was  pointed  out, 
as  the  ruined  young  man. 

Alas !  for  the  poor  mother.  Long  did  she  labor  to 
hide  the  fearful  truth  from  her  own  heart.  Her  love, 
ingenious  in  its  excuses,  strove  to  palliate  his  conduct  in 
the  view  of  others,  hoping  that  he  might  yet  retrieve  his 
reputation.  Patiently,  and  with  woman's  tact,  she 
waited  for  glimpses  of  good  feeling, — for  moments  of 
reflection,  to  give  force  to  her  tender  appeals, — her 
earnest  remonstrances.  But  her  husband  said  to  her, — 

"  It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  blind  ourselves  to  what 
is  known  to  all  the  people.  Our  son  is  a  sot !  I  have 
tried  with,  and  for  him,  every  means  of  reformation.  But 
they  are  all  like  water  spilt  upon  the  ground,  which  no 
man  gathereth  up  again." 

That  disgusting  vice  which  breaks  down  grace  of 
form,  and  beauty  of  countenance,  and  debases  intellect  to 
a  level  with  the  brute  creation,  has  seldom  been  more 
painfully  displayed  than  in  the  case  of  this  miserable 
youth.  The  pleasant  chamber,  so  carefully  decorated  by 
maternal  taste, — the  very  pictures  on  whose  walls  seemed 
to  look  reproachfully  at  him, — where  his  happy  boyhood 
had  dreamed  away  nights  of  innocence,  and  woke  to  the 
exuberance  of  health  and  joy, — was  now  the  scene  of  his 
frequent  sickness,  senseless  laughter,  or  awful  impre- 
cations. 

But  his  career  was  short,  and  his  sudden  death  horri- 


LOST    HOPES.  213 


ble.  Those  who  most  loved  him,  were  unable  to  witness 
it  With  eyeballs  starting  from  their  sockets,  he  raved 
of  hideous  monsters,  and  fiery  shapes,  that  surrounded 
him.  One  furious  struggle, — one  unearthly  shriek  of  wild 
and  weak  contention, — and  in  the  agonies  of  delirium 
tremens,  died  this  miserable  victim  of  intemperance,  ere 
time  had  impaired  his  vigor,  or  ripened  the  blossom  of 
his  manly  prime. 

In  the  suburbs  of  the  city  where  Frank  Edwards  was 
born  and  died,  was  a  cluster  of  humble  dwellings,  in  one  of 
which  resided  a  widow,  with  her  only  son.  She  was  poor, 
and  inured  to  labor,  but  freely  expended  on  him,  the 
little  gains  of  her  industry,  as  well  as  the  overflowing 
fulness  of  her  affections.  She  denied  herself  every 
superfluity,  that  he  might  enjoy  the  advantages  of  educa- 
tion, and  the  indulgences  that  boyhood  covets.  Silently 
she  sate,  working  at  her  small  fire,  by  a  single  lamp,  of- 
ten regarding  with  intense  delight  her  boy,  as  he  amused 
himself  with  his  books,  or  sought  out  his  lessons  for  the 
following  day.  The  expenses  of  his  education  were  de- 
frayed by  her  unresting  toil,  and  glad  and  proud  was  she 
to  bestow  on  him  privileges  which  she  had  never  been  so 
happy  as  to  share.  She  believed  him  to  be  faithfully 
acquiring  that  knowledge  which  she  respected,  without 
being  able  fully  to  comprehend.  But  his  teachers,  and 
his  idle  playmates,  better  knew  how  he  was  employed. 
He  learned  to  astonish  his  simple  admiring  parent  with 
high-sounding  epithets,  and  technical  terms,  and  to  de- 


214  LOST    HOPES. 


spise  her  for  not  understanding  them.  When  she  saw  him 
sometimes  dejected,  at  comparing  his  situation  with  those 
who  were  above  him  in  rank,  she  deepened  her  own  self- 
denial,  that  she  might  add  a  luxury  to  his  table,  or  a 
garment  to  his  wardrobe. 

How  happy  was  her  affectionate  heart  in  such  sacri- 
fices. Yet  she  erred  in  judgment,  for  they  fell  like  good 
seed  upon  stony  ground.  Indulgence  ministered  to  his 
selfishness,  and  rendered  him  incapable  of  warm  gratitude, 
or  just  appreciation.  As  his  boyhood  advanced,  there 
was  little  reciprocity  of  kindness,  and  every  year  seemed 
to  diminish  even  that  little.  At  length,  his  manners 
assumed  a  cast  of  defiance.  She  was  grieved  at  the 
alteration,  but  solaced  herself  with  the  sentiment,  that  it 
"  was  just  the  nature  of  boys" 

He  grew  boisterous  and  disobedient.  His  returns  to 
their  humble  cottage,  became  irregular.  She  sate  up 
late  for  him,  and  when  she  heard  his  approaching  foot- 
steps, forgot  her  weariness,  and  welcomed  him  kindly. 
But  he  might  have  seen  reproach  written  on  the  paleness 
of  her  loving  brow,  if  he  would  have  read  its  language. 
During  those  long  and  lonely  evenings,  she  sometimes 
wept  as  she  remembered  him  in  his  early  years,  when  he 
was  so  gentle,  and  to  her  eye,  so  beautiful.  "  But  this 
is  the  nature  of  young  men,"  said  her  lame  philosophy. 
So  she  armed  herself  to  bear. 

At  length,  it  was  evident  that  darker  vices  were  mak- 
ing him  their  victim.  The  habit  of  intemperance  could 


LOST    HOPES.  215 


no  longer  be  concealed,  even  from  a  love  that  blinded 
itself.  The' widowed  mother  remonstrated  with  unwonted 
energy.  She  was  answered  in  the  dialect  of  insolence 
and  brutality. 

He  disappeared  from  her  cottage.  What  she  dreaded, 
had  come  upon  her.  In  his  anger,  he  had  gone  to  sea. 
And  now,  every  night  when  the  tempest  howled,  and  the 
wind  was  high,  she  lay  sleepless,  thinking  of  him.  She 
saw  him  in  her  imagination  climbing  the  slippery  shrouds, 
or  doing  the  bidding  of  rough,  unfeeling  men.  Again, 
she  fancied  that  he  was  sick  and  suffering,  with  none  to 
watch  over  him,  and  have  patience  with  his  waywardness  ; 
and  her  head,  which  silver  hairs  had  begun  to  sprinkle, 
throbbed  in  agony,  till  her  eyes  gushed  out  like  foun- 
tains of  waters. 

But  hopes  of  his  return  began  to  cheer  her.  When 
the  new  moon,  with  its  slender  crescent  looked  in  at  her 
window,  she  said*  in  her  lonely  heart,  "  My  boy  will  be 
here,  before  that  moon  is  old."  And  when  it  waned, 
and  went  away,  she  sighed,  "  My  boy  will  remember 
me." 

Years  fled,  and  there  was  no  letter, — no  message. 
Sometimes,  she  gathered  floating  tidings  that  he  was  on 
some  far  sea,  or  in  some  foreign  clime.  When  he  touched 
at  any  port  of  his  native  land,  it  was  not  to  seek  the 
cottage  of  his  mother,  but  to  waste  his  wages  in  revelry, 
and  re-embark  on  a  new  voyage. 

Weary  years,  and  no  recognition,  no  letter. — And  yet 


216  LOST  HOPKS. 


she  had  abridged  her  comforts  that  he  might  be  taught  to 
•write,  and  was  wont  to  exhibit  his  penmanship  with  such 
pride.  Alas  !  her  indulgence  had  been  lost  on  an  ignoble 
nature.  But  she  checked  the  reproachful  thought  and 
sighed, — "  It  was  the  way  with  sailors."  '•',  '; . 

Amid  all  these  years  of  neglect  and  cruelty,  still  Love 
lived  on.  When  Hope  withheld  nutriment,  it  begged 
food  of  Memory.  It  was  satisfied  with  the  crumbs  from 
a  table,  that  must  never  be  spread  more.  So  Memory 
brought  the  fragments  that  she  had  gathered  into  her 
basket,  when  infancy  and  childish  innocence  held  their 
simple  festivals,  and  Love  as  a  mendicant  received  that 
broken  bread,  and  fed  upon  it,  and  gave  thanks.  It  fed 
upon  the  cradle-smile,  upon  the  first  lisping  words,  when 
with  its  cheek  laid  upon  the  mother's,  the  babe  slumbered 
the  live-long  night,  or  when  essaying  the  first  uncertain 
footsteps,  he  tottered  with  outstretched  arms  to  her 
bosom,  as  a  bird  newly-fledged,  to  its  nest. 

But  Religion  found  this  forsaken  widow,  and  com- 
muned with  her  at  the  deep  midnight,  while  the  storm 
was  raging  without.  It  told  her  of  a  "  name  better  than 
of  sons  or  of  daughters,"  and  she  was  comforted.  It 
bade  her  resign  herself  to  the  will  of  her  Father  in  Hea- 
ven, and  she  found  peace. 

It  was  a  cold  evening  in  the  winter,  and  the  snow  lay 
deep  upon  the  earth.  The  widow  sate  alone,  by  her  little 
fireside.  The  marks  of  early  age  had  settled  upon  her. 


LOST    HOPES.  217 


There  was  meekness  on  her  brow,  and  in  her  hand,  a  book 
from  whence  that  meekness  came. 

A  heavy  knock  shook  her  door,  and  ere  she  could  open 
it,  a  .man  entered.  He  moved  with  pain,  like  one  crip- 
pled, and  his  red  and  downcast  visage,  was  partially  con- 
cealed by  a  torn  hat.  Among  those  who  had  been 
familiar  with  his  youthful  countenance,  only  one,  save  the 
Being  who  made  him,  could  have  recognized  him  through 
his  disguise  and  misery.  The  mother,  looking  deep  into 
his  eye,  saw  a  faint  tinge  of  that  fair  blue,  which  had 
charmed  her,  when  it  unclosed  from  the  cradle-dream. 

"  My  son!  My  son!" 

Had  the  prodigal  returned,  by  a  late  repentance,  to 
atone  for  years  of  ingratitude  and  sin  ?  I  will  not  speak 
of  the  revels  that  shook  the  lowly  roof  of  his  widowed 
parent,  or  the  profanity  that  disturbed  her  repose. 

The  remainder  of  his  history  is  brief.  The  effects  of 
vice  had  debilitated  his  constitution,  and  once,  as  he  was 
apparently  recovering  from  a  long  paroxysm  of  intern^ 
perance,  apoplexy  struck  his  heated  brain,  and  he  lay,— : 
a  bloated  and  hideous  corse  ! 

The  poor  mother  faded  away,  and  followed  him. 


10 


A  DREAM. 

IN  troubled  sleep,  I  seem'd  to  see  a  flood 
Flaming  and  fearful. 

Far  and  wide  it  spread, 
And  many  trifled  on  its  fatal  brink 
Who  never  more  unscath'd,  to  life  return'd  : 
For  he  who  reel'd  upon  its  slippery  verge, 
Did  plunge  therein  and  mock  his  God,  and  die. 

Loud,  warning  voices  call'd  the  endanger'd  back, 
And  bade  them  drink  pure  water,  and  be  whole. 
Yet  some  there  were,  who  strove  with  eager  toil 
To  form  new  channels  for  that  baleful  tide, 
With  ^Etna's  lava, — and  they  strangelypress'd 
The  fire-cup  to  their  weaker  neighbor's  lip, 
Till  the  red  plague-spot  rankled  in  his  soul, 
While  in  their  coffers  swell'd  the  price  of  blood. 

Again  I  looked : — And  lo  !  they  did  the  deeds 
That  bounty  prompts, — the  sacred  fane  they  rear'd 
For  Christian  worship,  and  the  Gospel-gift 
Sent  to  blind  Pagans  ;  holding  high  their  lamp, 
That,  like  a  city  set  upon  a  hill, 
Its  light  might  not  be  hid. 


219 


Yet  still  they  sold 

Such  poison  to  their  brother,  as  bereav'd 
His  wretched  wife,  and  on  his  babes  entail'd 
Dire  orphanage ! 

Then  fled  my  dream  away ; 
And  words  were  trembling  on  my  lip  to  Him 
Who  giveth  skill  to  read  His  Holy  Word, — 
That  He  would  grant  us  hearts  to  understand 
That  wealth,  obtain'd  without  His  fear,  is  but 
An  ill  inheritance. — 

Oh  !  break  the  chain 

Of  Mammon  from  our  spirits,  that  in  love 
To  all  mankind,  as  well  as  love  to  Thee, 
With  hands  outstretch'd  to  pluck  our  brother's  feet 
From  the  destroyer's  net,  we  so  may  pass 
This  evil  world,  as  mid  all  snares  to  hold 
Our  footing  firm  in  Thee. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  COUNTKY. 

I  HEARD  a  bitter  sigh 

Break  from  a  mother's  breast, 
And  knew  it  was  my  Country's  voice 

That  thus  her  sons  addrest : — 
'Ye  are  my  crown  of  hope, 

Dim  not  its  peerless  ray ; 
Ye  are  the  sinews  of  my  strength, — 

Cast  not  that  strength  away. 

( There  is  a  fiery  cup, 

Whose  ministry  of  woe 
Can  melt  the  spirit's  purest  pearl, 

And  lay  the  mightiest  low : 
Turn  from  its  treacherous  tide, 

Repel  its  siren  claim, 
Nor  let  me  mid  the  nations  blush, 

And  mourn  my  children's  shame. 

r  And  will  ye,  for  the  sake 

Of  one  brief  poison-draught, 

The  record  of  my  fame  debase, 
By  blood  and  suffering  bought  ? — 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  COUNTRY.         221 

And  will  ye  cast  a  stain 

Upon  my  banner's  ray, 
That  all  the  rivers  of  your  realm 

Can  never  wash  away  ?" 


FALLEN  BY  THE  WAY. 

FROM  the  parent's  fond  protection, 

From  his  pleasant  native  glen, 
Youth,  with  reckless  spirit  hasteth 

To  the  crowded  haunts  of  men : 
Hidden  snares  and  tempters  meet  him, 

Lo  !  he  falleth  by  the  way  : 
Kneel  and  raise  him, — kneel  and  raise  him, 

He  hath  fallen  by  the  way. 

Full  of  pride,  and  self-reliance, 

With  a  warrior's  haughty  eye, 
Dauntless,  to  the  world's  encounter, 

Manhood  in  his  strength  went  by : 
Foes  in  ambush  gather 'd  round  him, 

He  hath  fallen  by  the  way  : 
Kneel  and  warn  him, — kneel  and  aid  him, 

He  hath  fallen  by  the  way. 

Heavenly  Father !  Thou  who  knowest 
All  the  weakness  of  the  breast, 

All  the  sorrow  of  the  lowest, 
All  the  frailties  of  the  best,— 


FALLEN    BY    THE    WAY.  223 

Teach  us,  for  our  erring  brethren, 
With  a  humbled  soul  to  pray ; 
Deign  to  help  them, — deign  to  save  them, 
They  have  fallen  by  the  way. 


THE  GOOD  QUEEN. 

"  I  do  assert,  from  all  excess 
In  food,— strong  drink,  or  gaudy  dress, 

To  every  man  doth  come 
Disturbance  in  his  inward  mind, 
Imprudence,  vengeance,  angtr  blind, 
And  sorrows  fierce,  and  ills  that  bind 
In  dark,  and  fearful  doom." 

KINO  ALFRED. 

A  SUMMER  moonlight  lay  on  the  sleeping  Seine.  It 
touched  with  trembling  lustre  the  thick,  waving  trees, 
and  promiscuous  roofs  of  Paris,  as  it  was,  thirteen  centu- 
ries since.  The  elegance  and  beauty  that  now  mark  its 
lofty  edifices, — elysian  gardens,  and  statued,  sparkling 
fountains,  could  scarcely  have  been  imagined  in  its  simple 
and  rude  aspect,  under  the  sway  of  the  Merovingian 
princes. 

Still,  it  was  not  without  gleamings  of  those  elements 
of  taste  and  majesty,  which  in  modern  times  attract  and 
charm  the  lingering  traveller  from  every  clime.  The 
fortifications  erected  under  its  Roman  masters,  gave  it 
an  appearance  of  strength  and  grandeur,  which  awed 
the  neighboring  tribes  of  barbarians ;  while  here  and 
there,  the  towers  of  a  church,  or  abbey,  showed  how 
early  the  heathen  temples  in  the  Gallic  clime,  had  been 
consecrated  to  the  worship  of  Jehovah. 


THE    GOOD    QUEEN.  225 

The  Frank  monarchs,  who,  from  the  time  of  Clovis, 
had  yielded  to  the  softening  sway  of  the  Christian 
religion,  displayed  in  their  modes  of  life  and  appendages 
of  royalty,  a  comparative  refinement.  The  midnight 
moon  was  now  silvering  the  palace,  where  Charibert 
wielded  the  sceptre  of  France.  He  might  have  been 
seen,  with  rapid  steps,  traversing  its  intricate  passages, 
and  seeking  a  remote  apartment.  A  fair  young  creature, 
with  a  form  and  movement  of  grace,  sprang  forward  to 
meet  him.  He  lightly  touched  her  forehead  with  his 
lips,  and  as  he  seated  her  beside  him,  the  smile  on  her 
glowing  features  seemed  to  pass  under  the  shadow  of 
some  saddening  thought. 

"Art  weary,  Bertha?  I  myself  nearly  slumbered 
amid  the  long  audience  I  was  compelled  to  give  those 
Saxon  strangers.  I  spoke  heavily  to  the  courtiers,  for 
my  heart  turned  towards  the  expecting  sweet  one  in  her 
lonely  chamber." 

He  paused,  but  there  was  no  reply. 

"  Thou  knowest  why  I  sought  this  interview,  and  on 
what  errand  I  came." 

The  gentle  girl  drooped  her  head,  till  the  clustering 
raven  curls  veiled  her  face  like  a  curtain.  Passing  his 
arm  tenderly  around  her,  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice, — 

"  Hast  thou  considered  the  proposal  of  Ethelbert,  the 
King  of  Kent  ?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"  Not  simply  King  of  Kent,  but  Bretwalda,  or  ruler  of 

10* 


226  THE    GOOD    Q.UEEN. 

the  Saxon  octarchy.  So  that  he  is  literally  the  sovereign, 
not  of  a  separate  province,  but  of  the  realm  of  Britain. 
Art  thou  insensible  of  the  honor  thus  offered  thee  ?" 

"  No,  father." 

"  Yes,  father/  and  no,  father!  Laconic  enough,  and 
indifferent  withal.  But  why  this  troubled  brow,  my 
daughter  ?  To  be  the  chosen  ladye-love  of  a  gallant 
and  powerful  monarch,  need  not,  one  would  think,  be 
quite  a  hopeless  sorrow." 

"  Not  a  sorrow,  s'ayest  thou  ?  to  leave  all  that  I  love, — 
thee,  and  my  mother,  and  the  young  brothers  and  sisters, 
with  whom  I  have  been  always  so  happy  ?  Not  a  sor- 
row, father,  to  make  my  home  among  a  strange,  wild 
people,  of  a  foreign  tongue  ?" 

"  Bertha,  it  is  woman's  lot,  to  leave  the  shelter  of 
childhood,  and  go  forth  into  the  field  of  duty ;  where 
thorns  may  indeed  spring,  but  where  the  blessed  sun- 
beam shines  on  the  true-hearted.  Knowest  thou  not 
this?" 

"  Yet,  dearest  father,  I  am  so  young, — scarcely  more 
than  a  child." 

"  Thy  years  are  indeed  few,  but  heavenly  wisdom  has 
given  a  ripeness  to  thy  soul,  that  age  sometimes  fails  to 
bring.  Judge  not  in  this  matter  as  self-indulgence  dic- 
tates. Think  of  the  disinterestedness  of  parental  love. 
\yherefore  doth  it  nurture  and  train  the  flowrets  that 
spring  around  it  ? — Expecting  them  always  to  grow  by 
its  side,  and  cheer  it  by  their  expanding  beauties  ?  Nay, 


THE    GOOD    aUEEN.  227 

my  daughter  ;  but  that  they  may  bless  other  hearts  with 
their  fragrance,  and  in  rearing  their  own  young  blossoms, 
fu!61  a  higher  destiny." 

With  an  earnest,  yet  tremulous  voice,  the  maiden 
answered, — 

"  Ah  !  let  me  still  linger  under  the  shade  of  the  blessed 
parent  tree.  Bid  me  not  to  leave  thee.  I  will  obey 
thine  every  word.  I  will  study  thine  unspoken  wishes.'-' 

Falling  on  her  knees,  she  raised  her  clasped  hands, 
and  imploring  eyes,  in  which  large  drops,  like  pearls, 
were  glistening. 

"  Tears,  my  Bertha !  Flow  they  not  from  a  deeper 
source  than  thy  words  have  revealed  ?  Confess  :  lovest 
thou  not  already  ?" 

The  clear  depths  of  the  moistened  eye  disclosed  a  guile- 
less spirit,  as  she  assured  him  that  her  heart  was  free. 

"Yet  these  fierce  Saxon  people,  so  long  known  as 
pirates,  and  sea-kings,  strike  me  with  terror." 

"  A  father's  heart  weighed  every  objection,  ere  it  lis- 
tened to  this  embassy.  Remember  they  are  no  longer 
marauders,  and  adventurers,  but  settled  in  the  fair  island 
which  they  have  won,  under  separate  governments  and 
advancing  in  civilization.  The  stream  as  it  runs,  refines. 
Ethelbert,  the  fourth  in  descent  from  Hengist,  is  called 
the  Magnificent,  as  well  as  the  brave.  Consent  to  see 
him,  and  then  decide  for  thyself.  I  promise,  that  no 
force  shall  be  used  with  thy  young  affections ;  for  thy 
happiness  is  my  own." 


1    228  THE    GOOD    Q.UEEN. 


"  Father !  I  love  the  faith  that  our  dear  Saviour  has 
taught.  How  can  I  wed  an  idolater !  Can  I  smother 
within  my  soul  the  breath  of  eternal  life,  and  be  guilt- 
less ?  Or  will  God  give  me  strength,  for  persecution 
and  martyrdom  ?" 

"  Beloved,  thou  hast  now  told  me  all  thine  heart.  I 
see  it  in  the  repose  that  steals  again  over  thy  troubled 
brow.  Thou  shrinkest  back  from  a  home  among  idola- 
ters. Who  knoweth  but  for  this  great  purpose  thou 
hast  been  called  thither,  to  lead  a  Pagan  prince,  and  his 
realm,  to  the  cross  of  the  Redeemer?  Who  can  say, 
that  this  honor  was  not  intended  thee  by  God,  and  that 
holy  angels  are  not  now  gazing  into  thy  weak  woman's 
heart,  to  see  what  it  will  answer." 

The  beautiful  girl  fixed  a  wondering,  half- credulous 
gaze,  upon  the  face  of  the  king.  Then  a  tide  of  great 
thoughts  swept  over  her.  Her  dark,  deep-set  eyes,  ra- 
diated with  an  unearthly  light,  as  the  mission-purpose 
entered  into  her  soul. 

She  rose  involuntarily.  Her  slight,  graceful  form,  in 
the  dim  ray  of  the  night-lamp,  seemed  to  gather  majesty. 
She  pressed  the  hand  of  her  father,  fondly  and  firmly 
between  her  own.  She  spoke  no  word,  but  he  compre- 
hended her.  He  embraced  her,  and  departed.  Long 
she  knelt  in  her  heart-breathed  prayer,  and  then  on  her 
pillow  settled  in  that  unbroken  slumber,  which  God  sends 
the  beloved  ones  who  early  repose  on  Him. 

Ethelbert,  with  a  fitting  retinue,  soon  arrived  at  the 


THE    GOOD.aUEEN.  229 


palace  of  the  French  king.  The  timid  modesty  with 
which  Bertha  appeared  before  him,  added  new  charms  to 
her  loveliness.  Every  succeeding  interview  deepened 
the  love  of  the  royal  suitor,  and  his  desire  to  secure  her 
preference. 

Nor  did  she,  in  his  company,  experience  the  horror  she 
had  anticipated.  Legends  of  piratical  invaders,  and 
visions  of  blood-stained  Jutes,  which  had  disturbed  her 
childish  dreams,  and  darkened  her  youthful  reveries, 
faded  into  thin  air.  In  their  place  was  a  noble  prince, 
of  commanding  person,  and  elegant  costume,  revealing 
in  every  action  the  respect  and  tenderness  that  win  their 
way  to  the  female  heart.  She  could  not  be  insensible  to 
the  devotion  of  a  lofty  spirit,  or  the  fervor  of  its  utter- 
ance. Her  reluctance  to  leave  her  native  realm  vanished, 
and  Charibert  and  his  queen  saw  their  beloved  daughter 
filled  with  those  blessed  sentiments  that  form  the  happi- 
ness of  a  new  home. 

In  those  comparatively  dark  ages,  the  Anglo  Saxons 
surpassed  not  only  the  surrounding  tribes,  but  the  more 
polished  nations  of  the  East,  in  their  chivalrous  treatment 
of  woman.  Her  rank  in  society,  her  position  amid  the 
household,  and  at  the  festive  board, — her  permitted 
presence  at  the  witena-gemote,  or  incipient  parliament, 
all  testified  their  appreciation  of  her  value,  and  of  the 
influence  she  might  exercise  for  good  or  for  evil.  Their 
earliest  written  laws  recognized  her  right  to  inherit  and 
transmit  property,  and  threw  a  protection  over  her  per- 


230  THE    GOOD    aUEEN. 


son,  and  over  her  solitary  widowhood.  Even  in  their 
rude  state  of  partial  civilization,  they  evinced  the  elements 
of  that  feeling,  which  a  poet  of  modern  Germany  warmly 
expresses  :  "  Honor  to  the  women  !  they  twine  and  weave 
heavenly  roses  with  the  web  of  this  earthly  life." 

Seldom  is  a  court,  encumbered,  as  it  is  wont  to  be, 
with  ceremony  and  heartless  expediency,  favorable  to  the 
growth  of  affection.  Yet  Ethelbert  and  Bertha,  both 
ardent,  and  unembarrassed  by  previous  intrigue  or  dis- 
appointment, were  soon  ready  to  inshrine  each  other's 
image  in  their  heart  of  hearts.  At  his  departure  she 
wore  the  ring  of  the  betrothed,  and  it  was  understood 
that  his  next  visit  was  to  win  a  queen  for  the  throne  of 
Kent. 

When  the  ships  of  the  royal  lover  again  danced  over 
the  foaming  sea  that  separated  their  native  strands,  the 
affianced  bride  was  ready  to  meet  him,  with  the  perfect 
trust  of  a  pure  and  affectionate  heart.  Before  them 
stretched  the  fair  region  of  hope,  like  a  newly-created 
Eden,  whose  flowery  haunts  no  tempter  had  ever  dared 
to  invade. 

"  Sometimes,  my  heart  misgives  me,  Bertha,  lest  thy 
new  home,  compared  with  this  beautiful  Paris,  may  not 
content  thee.  When  thou  shalt  walk  by  my  side  on  the 
white  cliffs  of  Dover — thine  own  cliffs — and  see  the  huge 
billows  heave  and  break  far  beneath  the  feet  of  their 
queen, — if  thou  shalt  mark  beyond  them,  as  a  faint  cloud, 
the  pleasant  land  of  France,  will  thy  heart  still  cling 


THE    GOOD    aUEEN.  231 


to  mine,  and  the  smile  beam  as  a  sunbeam  from  thy 
brow  ?" 

"  The  transplanted  flower  must  soon  take  root,  fostered 
by  tenderness  like  thine.  The  love  that  I  plight  thee  at 
the  altar,  shall  be  the  same  in  all  lands,  through  weal  or 
woe,  while  life  is  mine." 

"  Ah,  that  altar !"  he  murmured,  for  nurtured  as  he 
was,  in  paganism,  he  had  an  undefined  dread  of  the  nup- 
tial ritual  that  her  religion  imposed.  "That  altar,  of 
which  thou  speakest,  will  not  its  appalling  forms  blanch 
thy  fresh  cheek  with  paleness  ?  In  my  own  land,  there 
is  a  saying,  that  tears  at  a  bridal,  blight  the  buds  of  hap- 
piness. Bertha, — my  own  love, — -I  pray  thee,  let  our 
bridal  drink  no  pearl-drop  from  thine  eye.  Should  I  see 
but  one  glittering  there,  it  would  blast  my  joy.  For- 
give me  this  superstition." 

Bertha  held  sacred  this  wish  of  Ethelbert.    Neither  the 

• 

thrilling  marriage  responses,  nor  the  impressive  benedic- 
tion of  the  venerable  bishop  who  had  shed  the  baptismal 
dew  on  her  infancy ;  nor  the  parting  from  those  who 
fondly  cherished  her  earliest  affections,  were  suffered  to 
draw  forth  a  tear.  Around  the  neck  of  the  queen,  her 
beloved  mother,  she  almost  convulsively  threw  her  arms, 
burying  her  face  deep  in  the  bosom  where  she  had  so 
often  found  rest.  But  when  she  raised  her  eyes,  the  long 
raven  fringes  of  their  lids  were  dry.  Those  who  from  her 
childhood  had  known  her  impulsive  sensibility,  and  that 
she  could  never  part  from  favorite  playmates,  even  for  a 


232  THE    GOOD    QUEEN. 


few  days,  without  grief,  were  amazed  at  her  self-control. 
They  wondered  that  the  new  love  should  so  supersede 
the  old,  as  to  wash  away  all  the  tender  traces  of  memory. 
But  they  knew  not  that  a  higher  purpose  than  the  glow- 
ing hopes  of  personal  happiness,  swelled  the  bosom  of 
that  gentle,  delicate  bride,  gleaming  before  them  like  a 
fairy  vision,  her  rose-leaf  lip  slightly  blanched  with  emo- 
tion, yet  wearing  the  smile  of  an  angel.  They  penetrated 
not  the  heaven-born  motive,  that,  combining  with  the 
germs  of  conjugal  affection,  suddenly  ripened  and  sub- 
limated her  whole  nature. 

Soon  after  the  arrival  of  the  nuptial  cavalcade  at  the 
palace,  in  Canterbury,  the  ceremony  of  coronation  was 
performed.  It  had  been  an  early  custom  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxons,  to  place  with  pomp  and  rejoicing,  the  crown  on 
the  head  of  the  consorts  of  their  sovereign.  Ethelbert 
was  anxious  that  nothing  should  be  omitted,  that  could 
render  this  honor  to  his  queen  imposing  and  memorable 
to  their  people  ;  and  the  pageantry  of  the  scene  seemed 
to  justify  the  epithet  of  "  most  glorious,"  which  was  be- 
stowed upon  him,  either  by  the  justice  or  the  flattery  of 
his  own  times. 

It  was  at  the  coronation  dinner,  that  the  young  queen 
first  saw  the  dignitaries  of  her  new  realm.  At  an  im- 
mense oval  table,  loaded  with  a  plenty,  prodigal  almost 
to  rudeness,  were  seated,  each  a  lady  at  his  side,  the  prin- 
cipal earls,  ealdermen,  and  thanes.  Their  flowing  robes, 
richly  bordered,  were  of  strong  and  opposing  colors,  while 


THE    GOOD    dUEEN.  233 

the  red  gold  of  their  massy  bracelets  and  sword-hilts, 
made  an  array  of  barbaric  splendor.  She,  the  observed 
of  all  observers,  was  admired  for  her  tasteful  dress  and 
graceful  dignity  of  deportment.  She  also  regarded  with 
pleased  attention,  the  athletic  forms  and  fair  complexions 
of  those  by  whom  she  was  surrounded,  and  thought  the 
hair  of  the  bearded  chieftains  becomingly  adapted  to 
their  large  features,  parted  as  it  was  at  the  crown,  and 
falling  low  on  each  side,  in  full  floating  curls. 

At  a  separate  festive  board,  the  young  nobles  were 
entertained.  At  its  head  was  Prince  Sobert,  the  heir- 
apparent  to  the  throne  of  Essex  ;  whose  mother,  being 
the  sister  of  Ethelbert,  had  caused  him  to  be  placed 
under  the  care  of  his  uncle,  that  he  might  be  trained  by 
his  superior  wisdom  to  the  polity  of  kingly  government. 
He  was  conspicuous  by  his  lofty  stature,  and  the  profusion 
of  his  yellow  hair,  whose  heavy  curls  rested  upon  his 
broad  shoulders  ;  as  well  as  by  his  zeal  in  promoting 
conviviality,  both  by  word  and  example. 

His  rich  tunic  gleamed  with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow ; 
as  frequently  rising  from  his  seat,  to  pledge  those  around 
him,  he  raised  to  his  lips  an  immense  drinking-horn 
tipped  with  ivory,  and  wrought  at  the  golden  brim  with 
leaves  and  clusters  of  the  grape.  This  he  seemed  always 
to  drain  to  the  bottom.  His  fine  complexion  began  to  as- 
sume a  blood-red  tinge,  and  his  blue  eyes  to  radiate  like 
orbs  of  flame.  At  length,  his  voice  issued  in  huge  bursts 
of  sound,  slightly  modified  by  articulation,  and  still  less 


234  THE    GOOD    aUEEN. 

by  meaning.  Then,  lifting  a  wine-cup  of  silver,  and 
calling  upon  his  compeers  to  drink  nobly  to  the  fair,  new 
queen,  he  emptied  the  massy  goblet,  and  fell  senseless 
on  the  floor.  As  he  was  borne  from  the  hall, — his  head 
resting  helplessly  on  one  shoulder,  and  his  gigantic  limbs 
spasmodically  resisting,  —  Bertha  involuntarily  turned 
away  her  eyes,  with  a  feeling  of  humiliation  and  disgust. 
Yet  she  could  not  but  observe  that  the  scene  attracted 
little  attention  from  her  Anglo-Saxon  subjects,  who  were 
accustomed  to  think  the  extreme  of  conviviality,  on  high 
occasions,  by  no  means  an  indelible  blemish. 

The  royal  bridegroom  became  daily  more  and  more 
fascinated  by  the  graces  and  virtues  of  his  beautiful 
spouse.  Her  sweetness  of  spirit,  the  attractions  of  her 
conversation,  the  identification  of  her  sympathies  with 
his  own, — the  playfulness  of  her  unclouded  spirit,  the 
dignity  of  her  queenly  bearing,  the  refinement  that  she 
strove  to  diffuse  over  his  court ;  above  all,  the  patience 
with  which  she  sustained  trials,  or  resigned  her  own 
wishes,  were  more  forcible  arguments  to  his  mind  than 
all  the  pungency  of  polemics. 

"Thou  art  so  lovely,  my  wife,  so  like  a  sunbeam  on 
my  path  and  heart !  How  can  I  ever  repay  thee  for  the 
happiness  thou  hast  brought  me  ?" 

"  By  tasting  the  fountain  from  whence  it  flows." 

"  The  fountain  !  What  meanest  thou  ?  thy  faith  ?  Ah  ! 
if  I  could  be  indeed  convinced  that  was  the  source  of  thy 
virtues.  But  no,  I  deem  it  not  so ;  they  are  the  spon- 


THE    GOOD    aUEEN.  235 

taneous  overflowings  of  a  pure  nature.  Thou  wouldst 
still  be  goodness  itself,  without  thy  creed." 

"  Nay,  Ethelbert,  thy  too  partial  love  perceives  not,  or 
forgets,  how  oft  I  am  wayward.  Before  the  life-giving 
Spirit  breathed  into  my  heart,  it  was  sad,  and  in  dark- 
ness. Even  now,  at  the  close  of  every  day,  have  I  need 
to  humble  myself  for  its  doings,  or  not-doings." 

"  So  kind,  and  forbearing  to  all  beside,  how  is  it  that 
thou  ever  judgest  thyself  severely?  Doth  not  our  life 
already  overflow  with  joy  ?  I  have  always  a  fulness  of 
bliss,  if  thou  art  near.  What  more  could  thy  faith  add  ?" 

"  To  the  joys  of  this  life,  the  hopes  of  another.  Oh  ! 
beloved  of  my  soul,  ere  the  death-angel,  that  must  divide 
us,  cometh  ;  I  would  fain  see  thee  rejoicing  in  the  promise 
that  we  shall  dwell  together  forever." 

The  monarch  was  more  moved  by  these  appeals,  than 
his  words  admitted.  Had  they  been  too  frequent,  or 
strongly  reiterated,  or  attended  by  that  gloom  of  manner 
which  he  had  supposed  an  element  of  piety,  they  might 
have  failed  of  all  salutary  effect.  But  the  exquisite  tact 
that  accompanied  them,  gave  them  a  pleasant  home,  and 
an  echo  like  music,  in  his  memory. 

"  Would  that  the  God  of  Bertha  were  my  God  !"  was 
sometimes  his  ejaculation  in  solitude.  Had  she  imagined 
how  often,  it  would  have  inspired  her  with  new  courage. 
Before  her  departure  from  France,  he  had  promised  her 
parents  that  she  should  be  neither  opposed  nor  impeded, 
in  the  exercise  of  her  religion ;  and  even  invited  the  ven- 


236  THE    GOOD    (iUEEN. 


erable  instructor  of  her  childhood,  to  accompany  her  to 
her  new  home,  and  reside  under  his  jurisdiction.  With 
the  generosity  of  a  noble  nature,  he  not  only  faithfully 
regarded,  but  transcended  his  engagements.  Her  retire- 
ments in  her  oratory,  at  morn  and  eventide,  though  they 
might,  perchance,  seem  to  him  protracted,  were  never 
disturbed,  and  he  protected  her  in  the  sacredness  of 
those  Sabbath  devotions,  on  which  she  so  much  rested 
for  spiritual  strength  and  joy.  For  her  use,  he  prepared 
the  first  temple  that  Christianity  wrested  from  paganism 
in  England.  The  traveller  who  now  muses  within  the 
consecrated  walls  of  St.  Martin's,  or  beneath  the  gorgeous 
dome  of  St.  Paul's,  hears  the  tread  of  the  people,  like  the 
sound  of  many  waters,  looks  back  reverentially,  through 
the  dimness  of  more  than  twelve  centuries,  to  the  con- 
jugal love  of  their  founder,  Ethelbert,  and  the  faithful 
heaven-rewarded  piety  of  his  queen. 

The  pure  fountains  of  maternal  affection  were  unsealed 
for  Bertha,  and  infant  souls,  like  unfolding  rose-buds, 
laid  on  her  bosom.  Supplications  for  their  eternal  wel- 
fare were  mingled  with  the  orisons  which  had  long  been 
duly  offered  for  that  of  her  beloved  husband.  But  years 
sped,  and  there  seemed  no  nearer  approach  to  the  ac- 
complishment of  her  desires  for  him.  Yet  still  her  sa- 
cred fervor  failed  not,  while  patience  wrought  out  its 
perfect  work. 

At  length  tidings  came,  that  strangers  from  a  foreign 
coast  had  landed  on  the  isle  of  Thanet,  the  very  spot 


THE    GOOD    aUEEN.  237 

where,  a  few  generations  before,  the  brothers  Hengist 
and  Horsa  had  debarked,  with  their  ferocious  followers. 
Yet  these  peaceful  people  bore  no  resemblance,  in  char- 
acter or  purpose,  to  the  fierce  adventurers  whom  the  un- 
fortunate Britons  at  first  invited  as  allies,  and  afterwards 
strove  with  in  vain,  as  usurpers  and  conquerors.  They 
were  no  Scandinavian  marauders",  led  on  by  piratical  sea- 
kings  to  savage  conflict ;  but  Christians  from  Italy  and 
Gaul,  under  the  auspices  of  the  missionary  Augustine. 
That  Being,  who  educeth  great  events  from  causes  that 
blind  mortals  account  as  trifles,  had  made  the  blue  eyes 
and  fair  brows  of  some  English  children,  exposed  for  sale 
in  the  slave-markets  at  Rome,  and  even  the  alliterative 
phrase  on  the  lips  of  Gregory,  "  non  Angles,  sed  angeli," 
instrumental  in  the  conversion  of  that  glorious  island, 
which  now  plants  in  almost  every  pagan  clime,  the  cross 
of  her  Redeemer. 

This  peaceful  embassy  sought  an  audience  of  Ethel- 
bert.  His  lords  and  counsellors  were  dissatisfied  at  his 
compliance. 

"  If  you  are  determined,"  said  they,  "  to  grant  an  in- 
terview to  these  believers  in  strange  gods,  let  it  not  be 
in  the  royal  city,  or  within  your  palace  walls.  Meet 
them  on  the  extremity  of  your  shores,  where  they  now 
are,  and  listen  to  their  words  only  under  yon  vast  vaulted 
canopy.  For  they  are  dealers  in  spells  and  incantations, 
whose  force  the  free,  open  air,  somewhat  dispels.  Our 


238  THE    GOOD    QUEEN. 


advice  is,  therefore,  that  you  encounter  their  magic  under 
this  protection." 

The  king,  with  his  retinue,  accompanied  to  the  isle  of 
Thanet,  the  deputation  that  had  been  sent  to  implore  an 
audience.  When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  tents  of  the 
strangers,  sprinkled  like  snow  upon  the  rich  summer- 
turf,  he  paused,  and  a  seat  was  erected  for  him  beneath 
the  spreading  branches  of  lofty  trees.  Around  him 
ranged  the  nobles  and  pagan  priests,  darkly  frowning, 
while  beyond,  a  vast  concourse  of  people,  filled  with  in- 
tense curiosity,  covered  dale  and  hillock  in  breathless 
silence. 

Ere  long,  a  solemn  procession  was  seen  slowly  to  ad- 
vance. At  its  head  came  Augustine,  afterwards  honored 
with  the  title  of  the  Apostle  of  England.  A  massy  cross 
of  silver  was  borne  before  him.  A  long  train  of  ecclesi- 
astics followed,  walking  two  and  two,  displaying  on  a 
painted  banner  the  effigy  of  the  Saviour  of  man,  and 
chanting  hymns  antiphonally,  in  deep,  melodious  tones. 

Ethelbert,  rising  from  his  seat,  came  forward  to  meet 
this  singular  embassy.  On  his  mind  was  a  soothing  con- 
sciousness that  the  prayers  of  his  angel  wife  were  ascend- 
ing for  him.  The  consultation  that  ensued  was  earnest 
and  momentous.  It  was  observed  that  the  monarch  lis- 
tened with  more  and  more  absorbed  attention ;  and  that 
gradually  the  lofty  forehead  of  the  missionary  cleared 
itself  from  traces  of  anxious  thought,  and  that  his  pier- 
cing eye  gathered  brightness. 


THE    GOOD    aUEEN.  239 


"  We  offer  you,"  said  he,  "  oh  king  !  everlasting  joys, 
a  throne  that  hath  no  end.  Our  religion  cometh  not  to 
you  with  the  sword,  or  garments  rolled  in  blood.  It 
boweth  its  knee  to  teach  the  humblest  among  your  peo- 
ple. It  bringeth  gifts  of  peace  and  love  to  all,  from  His 
blessed  hand  who  died  for  man's  salvation." 

Ethelbert  answered,  with  a  calm  tone  and  steadfast 
countenance, — 

"Your  words  and  promises  are  fair.  But  they  are 
new  to  our  ears,  and  uncertain.  We  are  not  prepared  to 
change  the  gods  of  our  nation,  or  to  abandon  the  rites 
which  have  been  common  to  all  our  tribes  from  the 
beginning.  Yet  you  have  come  from  afar,  and  borne 
hardships,  to  bring  us  what  you  believe  to  be  good  and 
true.  We  will,  therefore,  hospitably  receive  you,  and 
supply  your  wants  while  you  remain  among  us.  We 
will  forbid  none  of  our  subjects  to  listen  to  your  words, 
nor  permit  any  to  be  molested  who  may  decide  to  be- 
come your  disciples." 

Delighted  with  the  frankness  and  liberality  of  the 
monarch,  and  overjoyed  at  a  reception  so  much  more 
favorable  than  they  had  anticipated;  they  departed, 
singing  anthems  of  praise,  whose  sweetly  solemn  echoes, 
softened  in  the  hush  of  twilight,  thrilled  the  hearts  of 
the  unaccustomed  hearers,  like  mysterious  melodies  from 
the  skies. 

Lodging  and  entertainment  for  the  strangers  were 
provided  within  the  precincts  of  Canterbury,  by  order 


240  THE    GOOD    dUEEN. 

of  the  queen,  to  whom  Ethelbert  had  intrusted  the 
arrangements  connected  with  their  fitting  accommoda- 
tion. She  zealously  executed  her  commission,  with 
heightened  love  to  him,  and  fervent  gratitude  to  God, 
who  had  thus  opened  a  door  for  the  entrance  of  the  life- 
giving  Gospel. 

The  shades  of  a  night,  dark  with  storms,  were  gather- 
ing over  the  palace.  One  by  one  the  courtiers  withdrew, 
when,  with  little  semblance  of  respect,  Prince  Sobert 
burst  into  the  royal  presence.  In  a  tone  unbefitting  his 
youth,  and  with  evident  marks  of  high  exasperation,  he 
began  to  upbraid  the  king  for  what  he  called  abandoning 
the  gods  of  his  fathers.  His  language  became  intemper- 
ate in  the  extreme,  and  his  gestures  those  of  an  infuria- 
ted inebriate.  Ethelbert  was  at  first  disposed  to  pay 
slight  heed  to  the  madman,  but  then  fixing  on  him  a 
stern  eye,  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  thunder, — 

"Rash  young  man,  will  there  never  be  an  end  of 
these  follies  ?  Slave  to  your  ungoverned  passions,  and 
to  this  beastly  intemperance,  hence !  Leave  the  society 
of  men,  for  which  you  are  unfit." 

Motioning  to  his  guards  he  bade  them  remove  him, 
and  keep  him  under  arrest,  until  he  should  regain  a 
better  mind.  Agitated  and  harassed  with  the  cares  of 
royalty,  Ethelbert  retired  to  the  apartment  of  the  queen. 
He  imparted  to  her  his  recent  cause  of  perplexity,  and 
the  anxiety  he  had  long  felt  for  the  courses  pursued 
by  the  young  prince,  his  nephew.  He  represented  him 


THE    GOOD    dUEEN.  241 

as  full  of  generous  and  noble  impulses,  but  all  obscured 
by  the  growing  habit  of  intemperance,  against  which 
every  admonition  was  in  vain.  He  besought  her  aid 
to  extirpate  this  vice,  to  soften  his  waywardness,  and 
render  the  son  of  his  favorite  sister,  and  the  heir  of  a 
powerful  realm,  more  worthy  of  his  high  destination. 

The  perfect  sympathy  with  which  Bertha  entered  into 
his  trouble,  the  fervent  promise  of  whatever  assistance 
it  might  be  in  her  power  to  bestow,  and  the  cheerful 
hope  with  which  she  spoke  of  His  sustaining  strength, 
who  loved  to  seek  and  to  save  the  lost,  calmed  his  per- 
turbed spirit,  and  lightened  the  load  that  had  long  lain 
heavy  there.  Afterwards,  he  often  beheld,  with  inef- 
fable gratitude,  the  wayward  young  prince  seeking  the 
society  of  the  queen,  half- reclining  at  her  feet  as  a  child- 
like listener,  or  fondling  her  little  ones  fondly  in  his 
arms.  He  felt  how  imperative  was  the  influence  of  female 
loveliness  and  piety,  that  could  thus  soothe  the  savage 
and  tame  the  lion, — 


"  For  passions  in  the  human  frame, 
Oft  put  the  lion's  rage  to  shame." 


Multitudes  of  the  Kentish  Saxons  were  induced  by 
curiosity  to  visit  the  stranger-teachers  at  Canterbury, 
who  now  assumed,  in  some  measure,  the  importance  of 
royal  guests.  Many  were  moved  by  the  warmth  of  their 
appeals,  and  the  sanctity  of  their  example.  Animated 
by  an  attention  and  success  that  surpassed  their  expecta- 

11 


242  THE    GOOD    aUEEN. 

tions,  the  missionaries  extended  their  benevolence  to  the 
despised  and  humbled  remnant  of  the  Britons,  who  soon 
after  their  subjugation  to  the  Roman  yoke,  had  nominally 
embraced  Christianity.  But  the  lapse  of  nearly  six  cen- 
turies, with  the  agony  of  an  almost  exterminating  struggle 
against  their  present  idolatrous  lords,  had  quenched  both 
the  hope  of  earth,  and  the  light  from  heaven.  The  lives 
of  even  their  clergy  were  so  debased  by  ignorance  and 
vice,  that  there  remained  scarcely  a  fragment  of  right 
example,  or  correct  discipline,  among  the  people. 

At  length,  Augustine  obtained  from  their  principal 
priests,  a  promise  to  meet  him  in  Worcestershire,  and 
confer  on  the  subject  which  he  proposed  for  their  investi- 
gation. Thither  they  came,  few  in  number,  men  of  sad 
countenances,  and  a  bitter  spirit.  He  earnestly  strove  to 
convince  them  of  error,  both  in  doctrine  and  observance, 
and  to  lead  them  to  reformation.  But,  suspicious  and 
vacillating,  they  neither  yielded  to  his  arguments,  nor 
were  able  to  establish  their  own.  A  second  consultation 
was  appointed,  and  ere  its  arrival  they  had  decided  to 
seek  the  advice  of  an  aged  hermit,  long  renowned  in 
that  region  for  austere  wisdom. 

The  shades  of  night  had  gathered,  and  a  chill  rain  fell 
like  hail-drops  upon  the  leafless  trees,  as,  through  tangled 
and  precipitous  paths,  they  wound  their  way  to  the  cave 
of  the  recluse.  With  difficulty  they  obtained  admittance. 
It  was  not  until  after  prolonged  parley,  that  the  stone 
which  secured  the  entrance,  was  rolled  away.  The  glare 


THE    GOOD    aUEEN.  243 


of  their  torches  revealed  a  subterranean  cell,  of  unequal 
height,  and  a  man  with  a  forbidding  aspect,  apparently  of 
great  strength,  but  wasted  by  abstinence  and  seclusion. 
His  long,  lean  limbs,  protruded  from  a  mantle  of  skins, 
in  which  he  was  scantily  wrapped.  Through  the  thick, 
grizzled  hair  and  beard,  that  formed  an  almost  con- 
tinuous mesh,  only  the  prominent  points  of  his  features 
were  visible,  and  his  cold  gray  eyes  looked  luridly  forth, 
as  if  to  petrify  the  beholder. 

"  Wherefore  come  ye  hither  ?"  he  cried,  in  a  startling 
discordant  tone. 

His  visitants  recounted  their  troubles,  their  doubts, 
their  need  of  counsel,  and  their  reverence  for  his  reputed 
wisdom.  Without  movement  of  muscle,  or  eyelid,  like 
one  fashioned  from  the  rock  that  surrounded  him,  he 
regarded  their  words. 

"More  strangers,  say  ye?  Has  not  the  coming  of 
strangers,  and  their  laws,  already  been  our  destruction  ? 
Brought  not  Caesar,  and  his  legions,  a  new  faith,  upon 
their  swords'  points  ?  Did  not  your  Saxon  lords,  with 
the  battle-axe,  hew  it  away  ?  And  now,  there  come 
other  strange  men,  to  talk  about  the  soul.  Are  there  no 
souls  in  their  own  country,  that  they  thus  traverse  sea 
and  land  to  find  them?" 

Moving  his  lips  for  a  while,  inarticulately,  as  if  mar- 
shalling bitter  thoughts,  he  exclaimed  with  added  vio- 
lence,— 

"  The  soul !  what  know  they,  or  what  know  ye,  of  that 


244  THE    GOOD    QUEEN. 


mysterious  thing  ?  And  ye  would  fain  make  laws  for  it, 
blind  and  foolish  as  ye  are.  The  soul !  whence  cometh 
it  ?  And  when  with  the  death-cry,  it  teareth  a  passage 
through  the  clay,  whither  goeth  it  ?  Ha  !  answer  me  ! 
Whither?" 

Alarmed  at  his  excitement  of  feeling,  they  hasted  to 
lay  before  him  the  gifts  they  had  brought.  Without 
deigning  a  glance  at  them,  he  raised  his  harsh  voice  to  a 
shout, — 

"  New  religions  !  Another  god  !  Our  fathers  wor- 
shipped the  blue  Woden,  and  the  Druids  cut  the  sacred 
misletoe,  with  a  knife  of  gold,  and  the  bards  sang  to  the 
harp  the  praise  of  heroes ;  and  from  the  stateliest  oak,  to 
the  smallest  moss-blade, — from  every  grove  and  fountain, 
came  the  whisper  of  in-dwelling,  and  friendly  spirits. 
Hath  it  ever  been  better  with  us,  than  with  them — freely 
launching  their  wattled  boats  upon  their  own  peaceful 
waters  ?  Better !  with  British  blood  in  your  veins, — 
clinging  to  some  shadow  of  deity,  to  some  vile  flapping 
bat,  that  nestles  in  the  mind  of  your  tyrannous  lords  ? 
Better!  rooted  out,  and  trampled  down,  and  6nding 
beasts  of  prey  more  merciful  than  men  ?" 

And  he  laughed,  a  bitter  and  scornful  laugh.  Then, 
drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  gigantic  height,  till  his  head 
touched  the  roof  of  the  cavern, — his  eyes  reddening  in 
the  torch-light  with  a  baleful  glare, — he  continued  to 
murmur  in  hollow  whispers,  and  hoarse  recitative,  as  if 
holding  converse  with  demons.  The  Britons,  inly  shud- 


THE    GOOD    aUKEN.  245    j 


dering,  fancied  that  they  heard  the  rushing  of  swift  and 
heavy  wings,  mixed  with  unearthly  shrieks.  It  was  the 
swell  of  the  tempest.  After  a  long  interval,  he  added 
in  a  more  subdued  tone, — 

"  Ye  have  asked  me  for  a  sign.  A  sign  !  What  is  it  to 
me,  with  whom  ye  collude,  or  whom  ye  choose  for  your 
masters, — slaves  as  ye  are,  and  hypocrites, — professing  to 
believe  in  Christ,  yet  crouching  under  the  mace  of  Thor^ 
the  thunderer  ?  For  a  sign  ye  ask  me  !  Go  your  way 
unto  this  stranger-priest.  If  he  rise  to  receive  you,  listen 
to  his  words,  and  obey  them.  If  he  rise  not,  refuse  a 
faith  that  is  not  able  to  abase  his  pride.  This  is  all  the 
sign  I  give  you.  And  now,  go  your  ways,  for  the  day 
breaketh." 

The  British  prelates,  superstitiously  yielding  to  the 
ascetic,  were  content  to  stake  on  a  mere  accident,  on  the 
whim  of  a  maddeniwg  brain,  a  negotiation  so  momentous. 
At  the  appointed  time,  they  repaired  to  Worcestershire. 
Augustine,  sitting  under  the  broad  shadow  of  an  oak, 
chanced  not  to  rise  as  they  approached.  Therefore,  to 
all  his  arguments,  they  were  immovable,  and  met  every 
conciliatory  proposal  with  a  negative.  The  ravings  of  a 
semi-savage  in  his  cavern,  prevailed  to  neutralize  the  elo- 
quence of  the  missionary ;  even  though  assuming  some- 
what of  prescience,  it  depicted  the  impending  evils  of  con- 
tumacy. 

Yet  this  disappointment  was  effaced  by  the  success 
that  awaited  him  amid  his  Saxon  hearers,  throngs  of 


246  THE    GOOD    dUEEN. 


whom  renounced  the  delusions  of  paganism.  For  Bertha, 
the  faithful  wife,  and  lovely  queen,  was  reserved  an  ex- 
quisite joy, — her  royal  husband's  avowal  of  his  belief  in 
the  Christian  religion.  This  event,  which  makes  memo- 
rable in  the  annals  of  England,  the  year  597,  was  followed 
by  the  conversion  of  ten  thousand  of  his  subjects,  who,  in 
one  day,  abjured  idolatry,  and  received  the  rite  of  bap- 
tism. Rapidly  the  knowledge  of  the  truth  overspread 
the  kingdoms  of  Kent  and  Essex,  until  gradually  the  whole 
Saxon  octarchy  drank  of  the  light  that  cometh  down  from 
heaven. 

The  influence  and  earnest  efforts  of  Bertha,  were  blessed 
in  the  reformation  of  the  young  Prince  Sobert.  Instil- 
ling into  his  mind  noble  sentiments,  and  generous  plans 
of  action,  he  was  led  to  despise  the  animal  appetites  in 
which  he  once  gloried,  and  to  break  the  chains  of  the 
vice  that  had  so  long  held  him  in  bondage.  "  Clothed 
and  in  his  right  mind,"  he  became  assiduous  to  acquire 
that  knowledge  which  should  enable  him  to  advance  the 
welfare  of  his  future  realm.  His  faithful  and  gentle 
monitor  rested  not  until  she  had  led  him  to  the  foot  of 
the  cross,  and  seen  him  fortify  all  his  good  resolutions  by 
humbly  trusting  in  the  Friend,  "  strong  to  suffer,  and 
mighty  to  save." 

The  reign  of  Ethelbert  was  long  and  prosperous.  To 
the  other  cares  of  royalty  which  accumulated  with  years, 
and  were  deepened  by  his  own  sense  of  responsibility  as 
a  Christian,  he  added  the  devotion  of  much  time  and  la- 


THE    GOOD    QUEEN.  247 


bor  to  the  formation  of  a  code  of  laws,  to  regulate  the 
crude  and  discordant  ideas  of  justice  that  prevailed  among 
the  people.  To  the  influence  of  the  Gospel,  we  probably 
owe  this  earliest  specimen  of  Saxon  jurisprudence.  In 
retracing  its  various  provisions,  we  fancy  that  we  perceive 
in  the  double  penalty  which  he  inflicted  on  all  crimes 
committed  in  a  state  of  inebriation,  the  intense  anxiety 
that  had  long  preyed  upon  his  mind  for  the  nephew,  whose 
training  had  been  committed  to  his  care,  and  by  whose  in- 
temperance he  had  been  so  often  fearfully  disgraced. 

His  gratitude  for  the  change  wrought  in  the  young 
Prince  Sobert,  was  without  bounds.  Next  to  the  life- 
giving  Spirit,  whose  breath  renovates  the  sinful  heart,  he 
recognized  in  this  blessed  result,  the  agency  of  his  be- 
loved wife. 

When  the  being  once  so  reckless,  strove  wisely  to  wield 
the  sceptre,  and  to  become  the  benefactor  of  his  people, 
Ethelbert,  regarding  him  with  paternal  pride,  yet  remem- 
bering his  former  horrible  slavery  to  the  most  debasing 
of  all  vices,  would  say  affectionately  to  Bertha,  "See 
^your  own  work." 

But  the  crown  of  her  reward,  and  that  for  which  she 
most  fervently  gave  thanks  to  the  Giver  of  every  good 
and  perfect  gift,  was  his  tremulous  whisper  in  retirement, 
"  Thy  hand,  my  wife,  hath  led  me  to  the  cross — thy 
pure  example,  the  beauty  of  holiness." 


"WHAT  THEN?" 

LIGHT  was  his  step,  his  eye  was  bright, 

The  youth  with  gesture  proud, — 
Who  thus,  as  Fancy  prompted,  spake 

The  exulting  thought  aloud : — 
"  Oh  !  when  the  blessed  time  shall  come 

That  studious  toils  are  o'er, 
And  this  stern  college-durance  past, 

Like  uncaged  bird  I'll  soar." 

What  then  ?" — a  reverend  sage  inquired : 
"  High  honors  shall  be  mine, 
And  listening  crowds  my  wisdom  seek, 

As  to  a  Delphic  shrine, — 
For  learning  from  my  lips  shall  flow, 
And  eloquence  divine." 

What  then  ?" — "  Where'er  my  footsteps  tend, 

A  tide  of  wealth  shall  roll ; 
And  gems,  and  wine,  and  luxuries  rare 

Be  mine,  from  pole  to  pole, — 
And  men  shall  find  my  nod  of  power 

Their  destinies  control." 


WHAT    THEN.  249 


"  What  then  ?" — "  Around  my  secret  bower 

The  wreaths  of  love  I'll  twine, 
And  all  that  youth  and  beauty  yield 

In  transport,  shall  be  mine, — 
Cloudless  and  long  my  life  shall  be 

Till  stars  of  evening  shine." 

u  What  then  ?" — "  When  all  hath  been  enjoyed 

That  charm  the  ear  and  eye, 
To  mortal  life's  extremest  verge, 

In  sculptured  tomb  I'll  lie, — 
Because  the  sentence  hath  gone  forth 

That  all  of  dust  must  die." 

"  What  then  ?" — 

A  lightning  flash  of  thought 

Quelled  the  proud  spirit's  dream, 
And  conscience,  with  a  lifted  scourge, 

Broke  in  on  Folly's  theme, — 
And  for  the  mercy  of  his  God 

He  learned  in  prayer  to  bow  ; 
And  seek  a  refuge  in  His  Love, 
When  Time's  illusive  span  should  prove 

One  everlasting  Now. 


IF 


UNKNOWN  HEIKS. 


"  He  heapeth  up  riches,  and  knoweth  not  who  shall  gather  them." 

DAVID. 

"  They  toil  for  heirs,  they  know  not  who, 
And  straight  are  seen  no  more." 

WATTS. 

His  brow  was  worn  with  care.     Too  deep  a  thought 

Had  settled  there,  for  lingering  sleep  to  shed 

Its  poppy  dew  unblamed.     He  said  of  mirth, 

And  every  social  joy,  —  "  They  profit  not," 

For  he  had  sold  his  life  to  gather  gain, 

And  rear  a  palace  for  his  only  son, 

That  crowds  might  envy.     To  his  wearied  heart 

Amid  its  slavery,  still  he  said,  "  Plod  on  ! 

'Tis  for  my  son."  —  But  lo  !  —  an  icy  grasp 

O'ermastered  him  at  once,  and  down  he  lay 

Reluctant  and  unmourned. 

The  heir  roamed  wide 

In  distant  lands,  with  light  and  lavish  haste 
Scattering  his  spoils. 

In  the  ancestral  halls, 

Are  guests,  and  banquet  -board,  and  music-strain, 
But  not  for  him.  —  They  bear  his  name  no  more  ; 
And  on  his  bloated  features  are  the  stamp, 


UNKNOWN    HEIRS.  551 

Of  libertine  and  exile.     In  the  wards 

Of  foreign  hospitals,  with  parching  lip, 

He  feels  the  fever-thirst,  and  none  are  near 

Of  all  the  many  servants  of  his  sire, 

To  give  him  water.     On  his  tongue  there  lurks 

The  drunkard's  mutter'd  curse,  mixed  with  no  word 

Of  grateful  memory  for  that  father's  care, 

Who  toiled  so  late  and  rose  ere  dawn  of  day 

To  toil  for  him  the  waster,  and  enrich 

Heirs,  all  unknown. 

A  mother,  strange  to  say, 
Repressed  the  claims  of  pity,  and  withheld 
The  surplus  of  her  stewardship  from  God. 
The  poor,  pale  sempstress,  with  her  trembling  nerves, 
And  timid  voice,  perceived  the  scanty  dole 
Narrowed  and  grudged  and  tardily  bestowed, 
And  wept,  despairing,  o'er  her  lonely  crust. 
The  beggar  came  not  twice  to  that  proud  door, 
Remembering  the  refusal,  couch'd  in  words 
Scornful  and  sharp.     The  mission-vessel  spread 
Its  snowy  wings,  and  sought  a  heathen  clime 
Without  her  aid. 

And  so  the  yearly  gold 
Swell'd  in  its  hoard  ;  and  to  herself  she  said, 
"  '  Fisfor  my  daughter's  use,  when  I  am  gone  :" 
Cheating  her  vexed  soul  with  empty  names 
Of  fond  maternal  duty, — veil  too  thin 
To  hide  her  nature  from  the  eye  of  Heaven. 


252  UNKNOWN    HEIRS. 


Oh  lady  !  in  the  damp  and  mouldering  tomb, 
Is  there  no  loop-hole,  whence  a  restless  ghost 
Might  scan  thy  lofty  mansion  ? 

See !  behold  ! 

Who  sitteth  on  thy  daughter's  rich  divan, 
And  in  her  costly  mirrors  idly  looks  ? 
Who  strews  the  flowers  that  deck'd  her  gay  parterre, 
And  revels  in  her  fruits  ? 

A  stranger  bride 

Calls  it  her  home. — Thy  daughter  is  not  there. 
Her  bed  is  in  the  clay — and  by  her  side 
The  babe,  whose  fleeting  life  with  hers  was  bought : 
While  he,  who  briefly  on  his  finger  wore 
The  circlet  of  her  love,  forgetteth  her. 

Yet  for  that  daughter  didst  thou  grind  the  poor, 
And  seal  thine  ear  against  the  Pagan's  moan ; 
Calling  it  prudence,  and  a  just  regard 
To  thine  own  offspring. 

'Twas  a  specious  lure  ! 
Oh,  mother,  did  it  shut  thy  soul  from  Heaven  ? 


THE 

CENTENNIAL  ANNIVERSARY  OF  PRINCETON  COLLEGE, 

NEW  JERSEY  ;  JUNE  29fch,  1847 

A  distinguished  guest,  on  this  occasion,  remarks: — "The  dinner, 
of  which  more  than  800,  principally  Alumni,  partook,  was  under  a 
spacious  and  beautiful  tent,  on  a  verdant  lawn,  behind  the  old  Col- 
lege edifice,  once  alternately  occupied  by  the  British  and  American 
armies.  This  festival  was  conducted  entirely  without  spirituous  or 
fermented  beverage.  Toasts  drank  in  pure  water,  or  lemonade,  and 
a  series  of  enlivening  addresses,  gave  exhilaration  and  enthusiasm 
to  the  memorable  scene." 


AN  hundred  years  have  sown 
The  rose-cup,  and  the  thorn, 

And  more  than  thirty  thousand  days 
Diffused  the  light  of  morn, — 

And  in  their  mighty  cradle  slept, 
Since  Old  Nassau  was  born. 

Look  to  yon  tented  lawn, 
Enrobed  in  glorious  green, 

Where  winds  the  long  procession  on 
Amid  the  classic  scene, — 

And  birthday  melodies  arise 
As  to  a  crowned  queen. 


254         ANNIVERSARY    OF    PRINCETON    COLLEGE. 

She  hath  no  hoary  hair, 
No  dimness  marks  her  eye, 

Her  children  cluster  round  her  side 
As  when  her  youth  was  high, — 

And  at  the  festal  board  she  pours 
The  nectar  of  the  sky. 

Such  nectar  as  the  Sun 

Exhales  in  crystal  tears, 
And  filters  through  the  silvery  cloud, 

The  fruitful  earth  that  cheers, — 
So,  here's  a  health  to  Old  Nassau 

For  another  hundred  years. 


LETTER  TO  FEMALES. 

"  Sisters,  and  friends,— come,  let  us  talk  awhile, 
'Twill  do  no  harm. — 

Heaven  grant  it  be  for  good." 

GORDON. 

WE,  my  dear  friends,  to  whom  are  intrusted  the  struc- 
ture of  domestic  life,  and  the  framework  of  families,  are  the 
natural  and  interested  guardians  of  temperance  and  purity. 
Without  these,  there  can  be  for  us  neither  happiness  nor 
safety.  Presiding  not  only  over  the  rites  of  hospitality, 
but  over  those  seasons  of  refreshment  around  the  house- 
hold board,  which  return  as  duly  as  morn,  noontide,  and 
evening  vary  the  sky  and  landscape,  are  we  fully  aware 
of  the  responsibilities  of  our  office  ? 

Home,  that  green,  sheltered  islet,  amid  the  great  waves 
of  an  unquiet  world,  is  our  blessed  province.  Have  we 
considered  the  dignity  of  the  sphere  in  which  we  are  thus 
placed  ? — a  realm,  whose  antiquity  is  coeval  with  the  cre- 
ation ;  whose  foundation  and  laws  are  the  work  of  almighty 
wisdom ;  whose  constitution  consults  both  the  necessity 
and  the  highest  good  of  its  subjects ;  whose  chief  minis- 
ters are  of  kindred  interests  and  kindred  blood ;  whose 
reverence  is  drawn  from  the  deepest,  least  fluctuating  re- 


256 


LETTER    TO    FEMALES. 


sources  of  humanity,  and  the  results  of  whose  policy  are 
as  sublime  and  boundless  as  eternity  ? 

Is  it  not  important  that  we  should  correctly  estimate 
our  position,  and  its  influences  ?  The  keen  eye  of  phi- 
losophy long  since  discerned,  that  to  have  power  over 
the  senses,  was  to  hold  the  key  of  the  mind.  "  Let  me 
make  the  songs  of  a  nation,"  said  a  wise  man,  "  I  care 
not  who  makes  the  laws." 

Has  the  ear  then  such  authority  ?  and  has  not  power 
over  it  been  delegated  to  those  who  rule  a  household  ? 
Is  not  his  ear  ours,  who  has  installed  us  as  the  presiding 
spirit  over  his  hearth  and  home  ?  Is  it  not  ours  for  the 
melody  of  hallowed  sentiment  ? — for  the  eloquent  inter- 
change of  knowledge  ? — for  the  charms  of  music  ? — for 
that  highest  of  all  harmonies  to  man's  heart, — the  voice 
of  love  ? 

Are  not  all  in  the  domestic  department,  thus  modified  ? 
The  infant,  who,  being  a  part  of  the  mother,  draws  in 
her  tones  with  the  food  that  sustains,  and  the  smile  that 
cheers  it ;  the  child,  who  perchance  will  take  onward  to 
gray  hairs,  or  to  the  grave,  her  voice,  as  the  only  unfor- 
gotten  lesson  ;  the  daughter,  whose  dawn  of  womanly 
beauty  is  heightened  by  the  docility  with  which  she  lis- 
tens to  her  beloved  guide ;  the  son,  who,  going  forth  to 
the  trials  of  the  world,  lingers  for  one  more  accent  of  her 
perfect  affection ; — even  the  servant,  watchful  of  words, 
as  well  as  of  example, — the  guest, — the  stranger  within 


LETTER    TO    FEMALES.  257 

the  gates, — each  and  all  are  thus  influenced  : — how- 
much,  another  world  will  more  clearly  unfold. 

Can  we,  then,  be  too  careful  of  tones  ? — of  things  ut- 
tered ? — of  the  spirit-harp,  on  which  we  are  permitted  to 
play  ?  Lest,  peradventure,  our  careless  touch  might  un- 
tune it  for  the  brief  concert  of  earth, — the  purer  melody 
of  heaven ! 

If,  by  the  respect  due  to  our  station,  the  ear  is  sub- 
jected to  us,  is  not  the  eye  ours  also  ? — ours,  for  the 
charm  of  a  cheerful  countenance, — for  the  fascinations  of 
grace  and  kindness, — for  the  beauties  of  a  well-ordered 
home, — for  that  symmetrical  adjustment  of  economy  with 
comfort,  which  those  who  fill  the  throne  of  a  household 
should  be  able  to  exhibit  ? 

There  are  some  apartments,  which,  from  the  carpet  to 
the  pictures  on  the  wall,  are  a  lesson  of  refined  taste  and 
harmony  of  color.  There  are  others,  unadorned  by  aught 
save  neatness,  which,  in  the  absence  of  all  ornament,  are 
still  more  admirable  to  an  accurate  observer,  from  their 
fitness,  and  the  balance  of  circumstance  with  duty.  The 
arrangements,  and  costume  of  the  mistress  of  the  family, 
may  display  elegance,  but  if  they  go  beyond  the  finances 
of  her  husband,  they  lose  that  beauty  of  adaptation  which 
is  necessary  to  please  a  clear-judging  mind.  Indeed, 
where  ornament  may  be  allowed  without  improper  ex- 
penditure, simplicity,  rather  than  gorgeousness,  has  more 
complete  power  over  a  true  taste,  and  longer  retains  it. 

The  attraction  of  flowers,  within  and  around  a  habita- 


258  LETTER    TO    FEMALES. 

tion,  is  in  accordance  with  His  plan,  "  whose  touch  per- 
fumes them,  and  whose  pencil  paints."  This  makes  the 
cottage-homes  of  England  sweet  to  their  inmates,  and  a 
pleasant  memory  to  the  passing  traveller.  The  simple 
plants  require  little  labor  of  culture,  and  a  good  spirit 
seems  to  prevail  where  they  are  reared.  It  is  beautifully 
designated  by  the  Germans,  as  the  "  angel  of  the  flow- 
ers." Its  ministry  is  to  charm  the  senses,  and  teach  the 
heart  a  lesson  of  His  love,  who  thus  deigns  to  make  even 
the  field  and  the  wayside  beautiful. 

If  it  has  been  felt,  that  the  eye  and  ear  are  such  pow- 
erful ambassadors  to  the  soul,  that  Devotion  has  appealed 
to  them  in  the  Gothic  arch,  the  storied  window,  and  the 
solemn  organ,  and  War  labored  to  enlist  them  by  pomp 
and  circumstance  ;  and  if  these  two  direct  avenues  are 
open  to  woman,  will  she  not  enter  them,  bearing  the  sym- 
bols of  temperance  and  of  virtue  ?  When  such  power 
was  delegated  by  civilized  society  to  the  weaker  hand, 
was  there  not  an  expectation  that  it  would  be  made  an 
ally  of  those  principles  that  give  to  that  civilized  society 
permanence  and  peace  ? 

The  eye  and  the  ear,  then,  it  would  seem,  are  among 
the  legitimate  subjects  of  those  who  rule  home  wisely. 
Are  not  the  appetites,  also,  a  part  of  their  legislation  ? 
"  The  way  to  a  man's  heart  is  through  his  stomach,"  said 
a  caustic  writer.  Without  fully  indorsing  the  sentiment 
of  the  satirist,  it  is  evident,  that  by  supervision  of  the 
table,  the  elements  that  refresh  weariness,  cheer  depres- 


LETTER    TO    FEMALES.  259 


sion,  sustain  physical  vigor,  and  minister  to  social  delight, 
are  among  the  perquisites  of  our  sex.  Mighty  instru- 
ments, in  this  our  combination  of  matter  with  mind.  Let 
us  see  how  they  are  applied. 

Thou,  who  spreadest  the  household  board,  say,  why  is 
this  or  that  alluring  condiment  and  perilous  beverage 
added?  To  show  how  cunningly  agents  unfriendly  to 
health,  may  be  disguised  by  culinary  chemistry  ? — how  far 
indulgence  may  go,  yet  stop  short  of  actual  inebriation  ? 
Or  to  test  and  trouble  the  feeble  virtue  of  children,  by 
bidding  them  abstain  from  what  they  see  others  partake  ? 
and  disturb  their  trust  in  your  own  Christian  sincerity, 
by  setting  an  example  which  they  are  forbidden  to  fol- 
low ?  Yet  even  where  there  is  no  allurement  to  abso- 
lute intemperance,  the  effect  of  habitual  absorption  in  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  and  their  preference  to  intellectual 
enjoyments,  are  so  pernicious  to  the  young,  that  the  ulti- 
mate ruin  of  families  may  be  frequently  traced  to  that 
source.  ^  '•-' 

But,  if  any  strangely  fancy  that  they  possess  the  power, 
ad  libitum,  to  weaken  the  body,  or  darken  the  minds  of 
those,  who,  by  the  structure  of  the  family  state,  are  com- 
mitted to  their  care  and  love ;  by  what  right  or  edict  do 
they  exercise  this  Circsean  policy  over  strangers  and 
guests  ? 

Thou,  who  makest  a  feast,  whence  this  increased  ac- 
tivity in  the  mixture  of  dangerous  elements  ? — this  array 
of  excitement  and  the  means  of  intoxication  ?  What  evil 


260  LETTER    TO     FEMALES. 

bath  the  stranger  done,  that  thou  shouldst  send  the  phy- 
sician to  his  lodgings  ? — or  perhaps  deepen  in  .him  that 
plague-spot  which  no  physician  can  heal  ? 

The  invited  guest  came  trustingly  under  thy  roof,  be- 
guiled by  words  of  courtesy.  Send  him  not  away  sick- 
ened or  sorrowing,  but  cheered  by  that  simple,  safe  enter- 
tainment, which  has  left  your  own  thoughts  unwearied 
and  fresh  for  the  social  intercourse,  appropriate  to  be- 
ings who  have  a  mind  as  well  as  a  body.  Surely,  no 
housekeeper,  or  mother,  would  deliberately  make  the 
sacred  rites  of  hospitality,  or  the  table  where  her  "  olive- 
plants"  daily  gather,  in  their  blossoming  hope,  subser- 
vient to  gluttony  and  intemperance,  or  to  the  education 
of  habits  that  might  lead  to  vices  so  degrading. 

It  is  happily  now,  less  the  custom  than  formerly,  to 
press  as  a  mark  of  welcome  or  pledge  of  hospitality,  the 
draught  that  may  inebriate.  Still,  it  is  not  extinct.  And 
though,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  it  may  be  harmless,  can 
we  be  sure  that  it  is  so  in  all  ? — that  it  might  never  serve 
as  fuel  to  some  latent  taste,  subdued  with  difficulty,  and 
which,  but  for  our  temptation,  might  possibly  have  been 
overcome  ? 

If  it  is  asked,  why  the  Christian  inhabitants  of  a  most 
Christian  land  should  choose,  as  the  herald  of  their  hos- 
pitality, the  pledge  of  their  friendship,  an  usage  as  dan- 
gerous as  the  sword  of  Damocles,  we  hear  only  the  an- 
swer,— "It  is  the  fashion."  To  the  inquiry,  how  woman, 
whose  safety  is  so  deeply  involved  in  the  moral  purity 


LETTER    TO    FEMALES.  261 

of  the  land,  should  venture  to  tamper  with  the  founda- 
tions of  temperance, — still  the  same  answer,  "  It  is  the 
fashion."  It  has  been  seriously  demanded  by  the  guar- 
dians of  virtue  and  religion,  why  she  should  ever  be  faith- 
less to  her  sacred  trust,  and  she  hath  herself  answered, — 
"It  is  the  fashion." 

When,  to  efface  a  stigma  from  national  character,  the 
philanthropist  and  statesman  are  combining  their  energies, 
it  becomes  not  those  of  humble  name  or  obscure  station, 
to  remain  inactive.  Our  sex,  depending  by  physical 
weakness  as  well  as  the  structure  of  refined  society,  on 
the  protection  of  others,  has  immense  interests  at  stake 
in  the  prevalence  or  suppression  of  that  lunacy,  which 
may  transform  protectors  into  murderers.  The  plea  of 
want  of  influence  is  not  available,  since  far-sighted  poli- 
ticians admit  that  no  vice  can  obtain  great  preponder- 
ance in  a  civilized  community,  without  the  permission  of 
females. 

If  the  cause  of  temperance,  which  has  made  such 
advances,  has  still  a  giant's  labor  to  perform,  let  us 
not  withhold  the  aid  that,  in  our  province  of  home,  it  is 
our  part  to  render.  Can  we,  whose  duties  and  felicities 
are  interwoven  with  the  conjugal  and  maternal  relations, 
be  too  vigilant  against  whatever  threatens  to  desecrate 
our  sanctuary  ? 

Sisters  and  friends  !  who  in  your  own  regulated  tastes, 
have  no  temptation  to  excess  of  animal  indulgence,  who 
without  effort  abstain  from  all  that  could  cloud  the  mind, 


262  LETTER    TO    FEMALES. 

or  inflame  the  passions,  are  you  thus  absolved  from  fur- 
ther responsibility?  Is  not  the  prevention  of  evil  in 
others,  according  to  the  measure  of  your  ability,  a  duty  ? 
To  the  teaching  of  example,  are  we  not  bound  to  add  the 
weight  of  that  influence  which  the  courtesy  of  an  en- 
lightened age,  and  the  condescending  spirit  of  the  religion 
of  Jesus,  has  in  these  latter  days  accorded  to  us  ?  Secure 
in  our  own  unfallen  estate,  is  it  not  possible  that  regret  or 
remorse  may  in  future  years  extort  the  confession, — "  We 
are  verily  guilty  concerning  our  brother  ?" 

If  the  spoiler  may  yet  effect  an  entrance  at  the  fireside, 
— the  household  board, — the  nursery, — have  we  nothing 
to  do  ?  We,  whose  fondest  affections  take  root  at  that 
fireside, — who,  at  that  household  board  have  precedence 
and  power, — to  whom  that  nursery  is  the  garner  of 
the  dearest  hopes,  for  time  and  eternity,  can  we  trace 
amid  those  hallowed  retreats  the  footsteps  of  a  foe,  and 
not  tremble  ? 

Wife  ! — who  by  solemn  vows,  before  men  and  angels, 
hast  entered  into  an  union  that  death  alone  can  dissolve, 
has  it  been  your  fate  to  see  the  vice  of  intemperance 
casting  deadly  shadow  over  the  heart,  where  your  high- 
est earthly  confidence  reposed  ?  And  day  by  day,  and 
hour  after  hour,  as  you  watched  its  fearful  ravages,  were 
you  careful  not  to  upbraid,  not  to  proA'oke,  not  to  argue 
reproachfully ;  but  to  repress  your  own  sense  of  suffer- 
ing,— to  make  home  desirable, — to  revivify  those  affec- 
tions, which  are  the  fountains  of  purity  and  joy  ?  Above 


LETTER    TO    FEMALES.  263 


all,  were  your  supplications  unceasing  to  Him,  who  alone 
can  turn  the  heart,  as  the  rivers  of  waters  are  turned  ? 
Then,  though  the  harvest  of  your  toils  may  have  per- 
ished,— though  the  desolation  of  your  peace  nothing 
earthly  can  solace, — still,  you  will  have  escaped  the 
rankling  torture  of  the  reflection,  that  you  are  verily 
guilty  concerning  him  who  was  "  your  more  than  brother, 
and  your  next  to  God." 

Mother ! — whose  duties  are  laid  deeper  than  any  vow 
of  the  lips,  even  in  the  immutable  strength  of  a  love 
that  cannot  swerve, — did  you  counsel  your  children  in 
this  matter,  "  rising  early,  and  late  taking  rest  ?"  With 
the  developments  of  character,  did  you  strive  to  impress 
the  control  of  the  appetites, — the  excellence  of  pleas- 
ures derived  from  intellect  and  benevolence, — the  true 
heroism  of  subjugating  the  flesh  to  the  spirit  ?  Did 
you  oppose  with  your  authority  every  infraction  of  these 
principles  ?  Did  you  warn  them  of  the  infirmity  of  their 
nature, — of  the  trials,  the  tempters  that  await  them, — 
of  their  need  to  seek  help  from  above  ?  At  dawn,  and 
at  the  hush  of  midnight,  was  there  a  fervent  lifting  up 
of  your  soul,  that  they  might  be  "  temperate  in  all 
things?" 

Still,  should  it  be  your  lot  to  behold  one  whom  you 
had  nurtured,  stain  the  heritage  of  his  athers,  and  go 
down  to  a  drunkard's  grave,  may  it  never  be  your  fearful 
doom  to  stand  at  the  bar  of  the  High  Judge,  and  say, — 
"  I  am  verily  guilty  concerning" •  whom  ?  Not  the 


264  LETTER    TO    FEMALES. 

brother,  whose  course  you  might  have  been  unable  to 
influence, — not  the  husband,  whom  it  was  never  your 
prerogative  to  control, — but  the  child,  whom  you  brought 
into  life,  and  loved  more  than  life ; — the  child,  for  the 
first  pencillings  on  whose  soul  you  were  accountable, 
intrusted  to  you  as  it  was,  like  unsullied  wax,  to  be 
stamped  with  the  signet  of  Heaven. 

Yet  there  are  other  evils  than  those  that  flow  from 
excess  in  drinking,  which  they  who  would  be  "  temper- 
ate in  all  things,"  must  avoid.  There  are  other  excite- 
ments than  those  of  the  table,  which  it  is  our  duty,  both 
by  example  and  precept,  to  discourage. 

One  is  the  stimulus  of  light  conversation,  vernacularly 
called  gossip,  in  which  the  integrity  of  facts  is  too  often 
sacrificed  to  their  embellishment.  Our  position  as  a  sex 
supplies  a  redundancy  of  such  subjects,  while  a  desire  of 
adding  novelty,  or  variety  to  soci  1  intercourse,  gives  to 
slight  circumstances  undue  inflation  and  expansion.  Cen- 
soriousness  springs  less  frequently  from  unkind  feeling, 
than  from  the  ambition  of  surpassing  others  in  pungency 
of  narration.  The  flattering  verdict  of  possessing  wit, 
must  be  maintained,  though  a  fair  reputation  suffer,  or 
a  weak  one  fall.  Even  kindly  disposed  natures  may  be 
led  to  this  intemperate  mode  of  serving  up  character,  by 
the  tastes  and  habits  of  those  around.  But  on  the  hard 
heart,  the  tongue  may  sharpen  itself,  till  one  becomes  a 
spear,  and  the  other  a  millstone. 

If  thou  art  bidden  to  a  feast  of  mangled  reputations, 


LETTER    TO    FEMALES.  265 

sit  not  unduly  long,  nor  lift  with  complacence  the  cup  in 
which  thy  neighbor's  faults  are  infused.  Through  the 
same  process  of  fermentation  thine  own  good  name  may 
also  pass,  for  at  the  wine-press  of  slander,  there  is  no 
respect  of  persons.  The  sour  grape  that  setteth  the 
teeth  on  edge,  and  the  rich  cluster  from  the  valley  of 
Eshcol,  which  the  Lord  commended, — go  in  alike, — and 
the  mingled  wine  is  pleasant  to  the  perverted  palate. 

Doth  it  not  behoove  us  rather  to  uplift  the  banner  of  a 
charity  that  "  thinketh  no  evil  ?"  For,  in  the  words  of  a 
fine  writer,  "  if  we  are  capable  of  showing  what  is  good 
in  another,  and  neglect  to  do  it,  we  omit  a  duty, — we 
omit  to  give  rational  pleasure,  and  to  conciliate  right 
good-will.  Nay  more,  are  we  not  abettors,  if  not  aiders 
in  the  vilest  fraud, — the  fraud  of  purloining  from  respect  ? 
Being  intrusted  with  letters  of  great  interest,  what  a 
baseness  not  to  deliver  them  !" 

The  influence  of  words  and  sympathies,  is  seldom 
fully  estimated.  Like  the  falling  pebble  in  the  stream, 
they  are  surrounded  by  circles  far  beyond  their  own  cir- 
cumference, which  continue  to  widen,  after  the  parent 
cause  is  buried  and  forgotten.  The  words  and  sympa- 
thies of  woman,  though  moving  in  a  narrow  and  secluded 
sphere,  have  peculiar  force  of  propagation.  They  are  not 
impeded  in  their  action,  by  those  pre-occupations  of  prej- 
udice, rancors  of  political  strife,  or  intrigues  of  state,  with 
which  the  eloquence  of  man  contends.  They  often  fall 
on  soil,  prepared  for  their  reception,  by  the  dews  of  in-- 

12 


266  LETTER    TO    FEMALES. 

fancy, — the  sunny  skies  of  childhood, — or  the  tranquil 
culture  of  friendship  and  affection.  Can  our  responsi- 
bility on  their  account  be  too  strongly  impressed  ? 

In  the  fumes  of  vanity  there  is  also  a  species  of  intox- 
ication, to  which  our  sex,  from  their  position,  are  exposed. 
A  young  female, — especially  if  possessing  beauty  or  ac- 
complishments,— is  often  nurtured  with  the  food  of  adula- 
tion. But,  in  her  ultimate  sphere  of  action,  she  finds  a 
different  aliment,  to  which  it  would  have  been  well,  if 
the  mental  appetite  had  been  early  trained.  The  essence 
of  conjugal  and  maternal  duty,  is  disinterestedness.  The 
undue  study  of  dress,  the  extravagant  expenditure  of  time 
and  money,  for  luxuriant  display,  the  predominance  of 
self  as  a  ruling  motive,  should  pass  away,  as  the  dawn 
when  the  sun  ariseth.  The  true  happiness  of  our  na- 
ture is  in  doing  good, — in  conferring,  rather  than  in  re- 
ceiving benefits.  The  holy  estate  of  matrimony  is  made 
more  holy,  by  its  facilities  for  these  ends.  A  well-or- 
dered, agreeable  home,  is  both  a  preventive  to  vice  and 
a  refuge  for  those  who  have  been  "  hurt  by  the  archers." 
Strength  is  given  us  here,  that  we  may  do  an  angel's 
work. 

The  preponderance  of  pursuits  comparatively  trifling, 
is  hazardous.  For  though  none  of  the  employments  that 
minister  to  the  comfort  of  domestic  life,  however  minute 
in  detail,  or  lowly  in  character,  should  be  overlooked  or 
despised,  yet  time  must  be  reserved  for  the  culture  of 
intellect,  for  retaining  knowledge  once  acquired,  and  in- 


LETTER    TO    FEMALES.  267 


creasing  its  store  by  those  who  would  desire  to  maintain 
durable  empire  over  the  heart.  The  first  enthusiasm  of 
youthful  love  must  suffer  abatement.  It  has  been  aptly 
compared  to  the  "  shadow  of  early  morning,  decreasing 
as  the  day  advances."  That  in  its  transition  it  may  take 
the  form  of  that  more  sober  and  sublimated  affection, 
which  deepens  till  the  sunset  of  life,  and  blends  with  the 
parting  smile  a  pledge  of  deathless  reunion,  it  must  be 
fortified  by  a  steadfast  mental,  moral,  and  religious  prog- 
ress,— an  elevation  in  the  scale  of  being,  which  labors 
to  bear  upward  those  whom  best  it  loves. 

A  too  excitable  temperament  is  to  be  guarded  against. 
Its  tendency  is  to  cloud  ihe  judgment,  and  impair  those 
defences  which  our  weakness  needs.  The  domination  of 
passion,  partakes  of  the  frenzy  of  intemperance  in  drink- 
ing. It  destroys  the  balance  of  thought,  and  the  sway 
of  reason.  It  "  taketh  away  the  armor  in  which  we 
trusted,  and  divideth  the  spoils."  The  loss  of  clear  in- 
tellectual guidance,  even  for  brief  and  long  separated  in- 
tervals, is  not  safe  for  those  who  often  find  their  best 
wisdom  inadequate  to  the  trials  and  emergencies  of  life. 
Would  the  helmsman,  amid  shoals  and  quicksands,  occa- 
sionally lay  aside  his  vigilance,  trusting  that  any  error, 
thus  committed,  might  be  rectified  in  his  future  course  ? 
Should  the  bird  of  passage  linger,  and  lose  sight  of  its 
leader,  might  it  be  sure  to  join  the  flock  unscathed,  when 
its  reverie  was  over  ?  And  must  not  she,  who  holds  the 
helm  of  a  household,  and  would  so  pass  this  troubled  pil- 


268  LETTER    TO    FEMALES. 


grimage,  as  not  to  iniss  with  them  the  "  Better  Land," 
spread  the  safe  sail  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit,  and  labor 
to  preserve,  amid  blast  and  billow,  the  serenity  of  a  self- 


Wealth  is  also  said  to  have  an  inebriating  tendency, 
which  its  possessors  are  not  always  able  to  withstand. 
Through  its  excitements,  pride  mounteth  to  the  brain,  and 
the  mind  dwelleth  only  upon  its  own  greatness,  and  the 
heart,  having  no  unsatisfied  want,  forgetteth  how  to  sympa- 
thize, and  its  alms  become  ostentation,  and  the  charity,  that 
might  have  made  them  acceptable  to  God,  hath  no  part 
in  the  matter.  Even  the  fine  eyes  of  youth  become  so 
sprinkled  with  the  sleep  of  self-indulgence,  as  to  see 
dreamily,  both  this  life  and  the  next.  Gold  and  silver, 
like  the  poppy-poison,  lay  the  heart  in  the  grave,  while 
the  body  lives.  Let  those  who  are  in  danger  of  such 
inebriations,  temper  the  exultation  of  riches,  by  a  sense 
of  the  stewardship  they  involve, — the  reflection  how  soon 
they  must  resign  them  for  the  poverty  of  the  grave,  and 
learn  the  philosophy  that  pronounced  at  the  close  of 
life,  nothing  its  own,  save  that  which  it  had  given  away. 

And  now,  dear  friends,  I  take  my  leave,  having  had 
pleasure  in  this  interview.  As  it  regards  the  sight  of  the 
countenance,  or  sound  of  the  voice,  we  may  be  strangers  ; 
yet  has  this  intercourse  made  you  to  me,  as  friends.  Per- 
chance, oceans  separate  us ;  still  it  seemeth  as  if  we  sate 
side  by  side.  We  have  seen  that  ability  is  committed  to  us, 
to  make  home  the  nursery  of  virtue ; — and  that  to  be 


LETTER    TO    FEMALES.  269 

"  temperate  in  all  things,"  it  is  not  sufficient  simply  to 
shun  the  wine-cup,  and  the  glutton's  feast.  We  have  to- 
gether contemplated  some  of  the  dangers  that  surround 
us, — some  of  the  temptations  which  we  must  repel,  for  the 
sake  of  those  whom  we  love.  Other  dangers  and  temp- 
tations might  also  have  been  pointed  out. 

But  the  field  is  broad,  and  time,  with  me  is  short.  I 
have  scattered  a  few  seeds,  whose  fruits  may  be  gath- 
ered, when  I  am  gone  ; — a  few  hints,  which  you  will  ex- 
pand and  illustrate  in  the  beauty  of  your  example. 

"  There  is  no  service,  said  Lord  Bacon,  comparable  to 
good  counsel, — since  no  man  can  do  so  much  for  us,  as 
we  may  do  for  ourselves :  and  good  counsel  helpeth  us 
to  help  ourselves."  A  still  greater  teacher,  incites  us  to 
add  to  "  knowledge,  temperance  ;  and  to  temperance, 
patience ;  and  to  patience,  godliness  ;  and  to  godliness, 
brotherly-kindness ;  and  to  brotherly-kindness,  charity." 
May  the  spirit  of  this  glorious  climax  animate  and  up- 
hold us,  while  we  labor  to  grave  on  the  signet-ring  of 
this  fleeting  life,  the  motto,  "  temperate  in  all  things" 


WOMAN'S  PATRIOTISM. 

How  shall  we  aid  the  land  we  love  ? 

O'er  dusty  tomes  to  pore, 
And  catch  the  warrior's  wrathful  mood 

From  Amazonian  lore  1 — 
To  turbulence,  or  pride  incite, 
And  quench  of  peace  the  angel  light  ? 
Relinquish  for  a  meteor's  glare 
The  boon  of  Love's  protecting  care  ? 
Ambition's  wind-swept  heights  assail, 
And  shun  the  sweet,  secluded  vale  ? — 
No,  sister,  no. 

How  aid  our  land  ? — The  boastful  voice 

In  public  haunts  to  raise  ? 
Or  barter  for  a  fickle  fame 

Affection's  priceless  praise  ? 
For  "  Woman's  Rights"  to  clamor  loud, 
And  dare  the  throng,  and  face  the  crowd  ? 
Or  wrapped  in  wild  desire  to  roam 
Forfeit  those  charities  of  home, 


WOMAN'S  PATRIOTISM.  271 

That  pain  can  soothe,  and  grief  control, 
And  lull  to  harmony  the  soul  ? — 

No,  sister,  no. 

In  her  own  place,  the  hearth  beside, 

The  patriot's  heart  to  cheer, 
The  young,  unfolding  mind  to  guide, 

The  future  sage  to  rear, — 
Where  sleeps  the  cradled  infant  fair, 
To  watch  with  love  and  kneel  in  prayer, 
Cheer  each  sad  soul  with  pity's  smile, 
And  frown  on  every  latent  wile 
That  threats  the  pure,  domestic  shade, 
Sister, — so  best  our  life  shall  aid 

The  land  we  love. 


THE   PRECIOUS  GIFT. 

ON    SEEING   A    GOLD    CHAIN,    AMONG   THE    CONTRIBUTIONS, 
AT    A    MEETING    FOR    TEMPERANCE. 

WOULD  that  ye  had  a  voice,  ye  links  of  gold, 
To  tell  me  of  your  giver. 

FANCY  paints 

A  young,  expressive  brow,  and  a  clear  eye, 
Beaming  with  purer  light,  as  from  the  neck 
Your  clasp  was  loosened. 

Whisper,  tissued  chain ! 
Wert  thou  the  favored  talisman  of  love  ? — 
Or  friendship's  bright  memento  ? 

Still,  'tis  well 

That  thou  art  here. — For  now,  that  love  may  be 
Remembered  by  the  deeds  that  bless  mankind ; 
And  holiest  friendship,  might  be  well  content 
With  such  a  token. 

Stranger!  who  perchance 
Didst  find  this  graceful  ornament  awake 
The  throb  of  vanity, — we  give  thee  praise 
For  this,  thy  wise  exchange.    The  pleasant  thoughts 
Of  pure  benevolence,  which  they  who  live 


THE    PRECIOUS    GIFT.  273 

Only  for  self,  know  not, — be  thy  reward, 
And  crown  thy  life  with  joy. 

Still  be  thou  true 

To  Pity's  angel-prompting.     What  thine  hand 
Findeth  in  duty's  sphere,  do  with  the  might 
Of  woman's  tenderness.     By  flowery  bands 
Of  soft  persuasion,  draw  the  wanderer  back, 
From  ruin's  slippery  verge.     Toil  to  uproot 
Those  weeds  of  vice,  that  by  the  wayside  spring, 
And  e'en  amid  our  garden's  choicest  flowers 
Unblushingly  intrude.     Show  gently  forth 
In  thine  own  hallowed  life,  the  blessedness 
Of  that  meek  mind,  which  Temperance  and  Peace, 
Fair-handed  sisters,  lead  in  duty's  path, 
And  crown  with  beauty  that  surmounts  the  tomb. 


THE  SPOILER. 

PARENT, — who  with  speechless  feeling 

O'er  thy  cradled  treasure  bent, 
Every  year  new  charms  revealing, 

Yet  thy  wealth  of  love  unspent : 
Hast  thou  seen  thai  blossom  blighted 

By  a  drear,  untimely  frost  ? 
All  thy  labor  unrequited, — 

Every  glorious  promise  lost '? 

Wife, — with  agony  unspoken, 

Bending  'neath  affliction's  rod, 
Is  thy  prop, — thine  idol  broken, 

Fondly  trusted,  next  to  God  ? — 
Husband, — o'er  thy  hope  a  mourner, 

Of  thy  chosen  friend  ashamed, 
Hast  thou  to  her  burial  borne  her, 

Unrepentant,  unreclaimed  ? 

Child, — in  tender  weakness  turning 
To  thy  heaven-appointed  guide, 

Doth  a  lava-poison  burning 
Change  to  gall  affection's  tide  ? 


THE    SPOILER.  275 


Still  that  orphan  burden  bearing, 
Darker  than  the  grave  can  show, 

Dost  thou  bow  thee  down  despairing 
To  thine  heritage  of  woe  ? 

Country, — on  thy  sons  depending, 

Strong  in  manhood,  bright  in  bloom, 
Hast  thou  seen  thy  pride  descending 

Shrouded,  to  the  unhonor'd  tomb  ? 
Rise  !  on  eagle-pinion  soaring, 

Rise  !  in  all  thy  godlike  birth, 
And  Jehovah's  aid  imploring, 

Sweep  the  Spoiler  from  the  earth. 


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